


We exist to fall apart

by loststardust



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Original Character(s), Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Swearing, tommy being suave af lmao, u know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loststardust/pseuds/loststardust
Summary: You met Tommy Shelby, for the first time, at a horse race. You hated the races. Eventually, you’d hate Tommy just as much. But Heaven knows you couldn’t stay away.





	1. A Very Pretty Dress

You met Tommy Shelby, for the first time, at a horse race. 

You hated the races. The glamour, the forced small talk, the flashing of wealth… It just wasn’t enjoyable. Your mother insisted you went, claimed it was “your duty” to make connections, but what that really meant? She was relying on you to charm your father’s associates. To bat your lashes, to keep the cash flowing, and the business booming. It was dull, flirting. You barely even noticed the mens’ stares anymore. 

This time was no different. The crowds were as lavish as ever, each of them dressed from head-to-toe in the most expensive items they owned, a glass of alcohol balanced in each hand. You liked to think that they took no notice of you, as you passed, but they did. People judged with hungry eyes. Conversations hushed. But you went on, one arm linked with that of the man your mother had picked to be your date. His name was Clive, or Clark. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had a bank account filled with money, and a status higher than your own.

“Shall we get a drink?” He asked, looking back to you as he manoeuvred the crowds. 

He was an attractive man, if you squinted, and he smelt nice. “Sure,” you smiled. 

Clark/Clive nodded, and squeezed your hand before unlinking with you. He left you by a tall table, one designed to be leant on, rather than sat at; you watched his greying hair slip into the crowd. He hadn’t even asked what you wanted to drink.

You perched, resting both elbows on the table, and then putting your chin in your hands. The race was nowhere near ready to start, which meant you had to endure hours of this: People watching and polite, but boring, conversation. Brilliant. 

You sighed heavily, lazy eyes scanning the faces of the people around you. You recognised a few of them, those lucky enough to be invited to your father’s dinner parties, but the majority blurred together. One big sea of gambling wealth. 

It wasn’t long before you had company once more, and you felt a controlled hand against your backside. You turned, prepared to scold your date, only to find yourself eye-to-eye with a Peaky Blinder. 

“You’re a pretty thing,” the man, not much older than yourself, kept his hand on you while he spoke. “How much d’you charge then?”

Your mouth fell open, only to slam shut again as you processed his meaning. You pushed his arm away, “Excuse me?” 

“C’mon, don’t play—“ 

“I am not for sale.” You spat, taking a step away from the man and pulling your shawl tighter around yourself. 

The man scoffed, the toothpick between his plump lips bounced. “Already spoken for? I can double what he’s giving ya.”

You stared. The audacity of the man was speech-defying. 

He cocked an eyebrow. “Triple it.” His breath was thick with liquor, typical. 

You were about to reply, to tell him to fuck off, when a second man interrupted.

“That’s enough, John.” The man spoke, pulling John away from you with a firm hand. “Don’t mind him, he’s had enough to fill a horse.” 

And that’s how you met him. Thomas Shelby. The man who’d change your life.

He was dressed impeccably, his outfit matching from cuff-link, to waistcoat, to shoe. The flat cap you’d been told to look out for, to stay away from, was tucked into the left pocket of his suit. His hair was black, and swept back with precision, leaving his face open. Those cheekbones… They were sharp, and bordering on the line of being intimidating. 

Ashamedly, you were staring, and unable to pull a response from your lipsticked mouth. 

Mr Shelby took no notice, turning back to John, “Apologise to the nice lady.”

“Tommy—“

“I said apologise, John.” Tommy looked down to his hands, which held a small tin of cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth, lighting it with a match while he waited for John’s reply. 

You watched, wide eyed as John rubbed at the back of his neck. “Alright, sorry,” John spoke, continuing when Tommy hadn’t moved, “I shouldn’t have assumed about you like that.”

“It’s fine.” You replied, folding your arms. 

“Right.” Tommy raised his head, taking a drag from his cigarette. “On your way.” He had an accent different to yours, one that proudly brandished his birthplace, one that you could imagine yourself loving the sound of.

John nodded, before flashing you an embarrassed smile, and turning away from you both. He disappeared into the crowd and you became aware of your isolation with Tommy, who remained smoking beside you.

“Thank you,” you began, desperate to fill the silence, “I wasn’t sure how that was going to play out.”

“John’s harmless really, until he gets a pint in him.” He spoke without looking to you. You nodded. Tommy took another drag, speaking with the exhale of smoke. “You shouldn’t be here alone, the races can be a dangerous place.”

“I was just waiting for my friend, he’s getting us drinks.”

“I see.” He finally looked at you, eyes pouring over your body before returning to your face.

“Although, I’ve been here by myself plenty of times.” You weren’t really sure why you continued speaking, perhaps it was pride, a desire to let him know you weren’t helpless. “I’ve never had any trouble.”

“Maybe it’s the dress.” 

“The dress?”

He laughed to himself, the gesture so small you could’ve passed it off as a cough. “John can be very particular in his choice of whores. Maybe, it’s the dress that draws trouble.” He looked to you, gesturing toward the dress you wore. “It’s a very pretty dress.”

You felt your cheeks flash with heat, and quickly turned your growing smile into a frown, attempting to collect yourself. “What trouble?” Behind the compliment, his words had agitated you and forced a certain bitterness to rise into your voice. “Thanks to you, my dress hasn’t brought any trouble at all. Unless you’re one of the dangers you’re trying to warn me against, Mr Shelby?”

Tommy lifted an eyebrow, a bemused look ghosting behind his stoic features. “So, you know me, but I don’t know you.”

“It’s near impossible to not know you, Mr Shelby.”

“Tommy,” he dropped his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with his foot, “and I’m no danger to you.”

You felt victorious, your heart picking up slightly at the turn of the conversation. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” The sarcasm slipped from your lips.

Tommy was staring at you, unapologetically holding your gaze with those piercing eyes. “What’s your name?”

You tell him. He makes the slightest of nods. “It’s very nice to meet you, (y/n).”

The intensity of his stare makes you believe him, and your cheeks grow hotter in response. 

From behind you, your date clears his throat, having approached the two of you with a glass of something fizzy in each hand. He looks from you, to Tommy, to you again. Clive/Clark isn’t pleased.

“I didn’t realise we’d be expecting company, (y/n).” His voice wavers, the forced civility causing another stress line to appear on his already wrinkled face.

You hesitate, juggling the questionable names of your date, before deciding against it. “Mister, this is Thomas—“

“I was just complimenting your friend on her dress.” Tommy spoke cooly, interrupting you. 

Clive stuttered, flustered by the use of “mister”, and Tommy’s comment. He babbled for a moment before gathering himself, “Yes, well, my dear (y/n) has remarkable taste. In fact, I told her to buy herself something new, out of my own purse of course, just for—”

“Perhaps you’ll wear it for me sometime,” Tommy caught you off guard, directing his gaze onto you as he spoke. 

You stared back at him, barely recognising your own voice as you replied, ‘Perhaps.”

Tommy smiled. He looked to Clark, who had grown red in the face, and nodded a goodbye to him. “I’ll be on my way now.” His face was rigid, but his eyes told a different story, one of amusement. 

“Quite.” Clive barked, his ego wounded beyond repair.

Tommy stole a final look at you, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking away. You watched his shoulders merge with the other race goers, fighting the urger to follow after him. 

“Come now, (y/n).” Clive/Clark pulled at your elbow, steering you from where you faced, “Shelby business is bad business. Your father will—“

You weren’t listening to him. You’d stopped the moment Shelby had left his lips. 

You didn’t know why Tommy belittled your date, or lingered to speak to you, or even why he’d bothered to stop John’s drunken proposition in the first place. 

But what you were certain of, without consciously deciding so, was that this wasn’t the last time you’d speak with Tommy Shelby. Even if that meant going after him yourself.


	2. Closed Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week has passed, and you'd spent each day with him in the back of your mind. Today, you'd take hold of fate, and go to him. 
> 
> You'd show up at Tommy Shelby's door and, well, you weren't quite sure what. 
> 
> But perhaps seeing him would be enough.

You’d never been to Birmingham. You didn’t know the streets, or how the locals felt about strangers, asking their way around. But that didn’t stop you. You’d made up your mind. 

It hadn’t taken you long to find his address, once you asked the right people. It was your mother’s friend, who’d told you Birmingham, gossiping about how the Blinders were running the show up there, and how good they looked doing it. And it was your mother who told you not to go, not that you listened. You barely waited a day before making the journey.

Once in the city, you needed specifics. At first, the quest was unbearable, every person you asked shying away from you as soon as the name Shelby was mentioned. You supposed it looked strange, a girl from out of town, asking after the Shelbys. But you were relentless, continuing your search until you found someone willing to help. 

It was a lady, in the end. A short, grey haired, curving backed, lady. 

“Thomas Shelby?” She repeated, in either thought or disbelief. 

“Yes, please. I’m a friend of his.” It was an exaggeration, but she didn’t have to know that.

“I know him, ‘ave done since he was small.” She craned her neck to look you in the eyes. “Walk me home, I’ll show you the ‘ouse on the way.”

You hesitated, it really wasn’t in your nature to assist the elderly. “I’m in a bit of a hurry—“

“You’ll have an hard time findin’ someone else to take you.” 

You sighed, “Alright.” You made a silent prayer to yourself, hoping that the woman kept to her word. “Would you like me to carry that?” 

The old lady nodded, struggling to lift the basket up to you. You took it, finding no issues with the weight of the objects inside, and waited for her to get moving. 

The pace of the woman was excruciating, her taught knees causing her to take slow, minuscule steps. It was frustrating, but it could’ve been worse; the lady didn’t seem much interested in conversation, and hadn’t spoken to you once since the walk had began. Thank God. 

The silence gave you time to prepare, time to set your story straight and run the white lies over in your head again. You knew Tommy would ask of a reason for your visit. And you couldn’t tell him that you came to him because, well, you wanted to. That ever since the race, you couldn’t wash the meeting from your memory. That you often found yourself daydreaming of a time, where you could wear that very pretty dress again, just for him. That you’d spent days, replaying the sound of your name in his voice. No, you couldn’t tell him that. So you’d thought up an excuse. It was believable, you hoped, and you were willing to at least try. 

After a while, the lady turned onto a long road, that was lined with thin, dark, brick houses. You’d been taking in the scenery with disinterested eyes, barely registering the housing, when she broke the silence.

“This ones the road y’er after.” Her hobbled pace remained the same, as she continued down the road. “I’m just down ‘ere.”

“And the Shelby’s?” Your impatience bubbled over, and you found yourself fidgeting with each step. 

“Just a minute.” She came to a stop in front of a door, and began rummaging in the pocket of her thick cardigan. 

You scanned the area, houses dirtied from industrial air. It wasn’t an empty road by any means, with people pottering about, but it was empty of anyone you recognised. 

“There we are.” The lady produced a key.

“I’m sorry, but I really need to get on.” You placed the basket by her feet. “Which house is it?”

The lady looked mildly annoyed, but replied, “The other end, it’s—” 

She gave you the house number and you were off, quickly pacing away from her. 

It felt good to walk at a speed, and your own urgency gave you little time to think over your lies once more. You approached the house, which had a car parked beside it; the car was pristine, a shining black that seemed out of place, clashing against the dusty road. The house was no different from the outside, it blended perfectly with the others surrounding it, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Or perhaps relieved.

Collect yourself. Two deep breaths. 

You knocked. 

The door was yanked open, revealing a boy, no older than fourteen. He looked at you expectantly.

“Hello,” you smiled, “I’m looking for Tommy.”

“Is he expectin’ you?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

The boy hesitated. You could see the Shelby in his features. “I’ll get him, come in.”

You stepped into the house, watching as the boy disappeared ahead of you. Turning to shut the door, you attempted to still your breath, leaning against the wood. You’d planned your words, but now, here, in the Shelby house… 

“This is a surprise.” His voice came from behind, at the end of the short hallway. 

You span, facing him. Tommy Shelby. The breath escaped from your throat. 

“I assume you’re well?” He inquired, after you failed to speak.

“Yes,” you blushed, “thank-you.” 

Tommy was dressed down, comparatively. As if he’d been disrupted from his work. He wore a grey waistcoat, a white shirt beneath, the sleeves rolled past his elbows. You couldn't help but stare.

“What can I do for you, (y/n)?” His tone held an edge of impatience. 

“I, well.” The script was falling apart in your head. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“We’re speaking aren’t we?” 

“Yes—“ 

“Then, have your say.” He gestured with his hand for you to hurry your words. You couldn’t help but wince, having not anticipated his lack of care. 

“Invite the girl in, Tommy.” The instruction came from the doorway behind Tommy, which was covered by a maroon curtain. You silently thanked the female voice, blessing the person who saved you from the quickly failing conversation. 

Tommy sighed, before turning his body, an arm extended toward the curtain. You smiled, walking down the hallway to pass him. You forced yourself to avoid looking at him as you did so, actively ignoring how your shoulder brushed across his chest. 

You pulled the curtain aside, entering the small kitchen space behind it. It was cluttered, but homely. A functional kitchen, dimly lit and stacked high with various objects, presumably collected over the years. A middle aged woman, with soft features and sturdy eyes, sat at the table.

“Pol, this is (y/n).” Tommy followed behind you, introducing the two of you as he moved to stand beside the table. “(Y/n) this is my Aunt Polly.”

“Pleased to meet you,” you bent your knees slightly as you spoke, giving her your best informal bow. 

“So,” Tommy spoke, tiring of the small talk, “what can I do for you?”

He wasn’t looking at you, and you found yourself looking to Pol as you spoke, “Well, I was hoping to talk business.”

“Anything you can say to me, you can say to Pol.” He answered the question you hadn’t bothered to ask.

You took a breath. It wasn’t the reunion you’d had wished for, but it was going to have to do. “My father is a tailor, in London.”

Tommy glanced up to you, away from the flooring that had previously held his interest. 

“He’s very reputable. He works with the finest people in London.”

“I already have a tailor, Miss (y/l/n).” He lifted a hand to rest it on the back of Pol’s chair. “I’m very happy with the service.”

Pol didn’t look up from the newspaper she was reading, but spoke nonetheless, “Let her finish, Tommy.”  
You couldn’t bring yourself to smile. Your plan was failing fast, discarded along with any ounce of charm Tommy had previously shown to you. “No one makes suits like my father. Nor, does anyone make suits for the people my father makes suits for.” You paused, he stared. You continued, “I feel it’d be a great opportunity for you. I came to invite you down for a fitting.”

Pol raised an eyebrow, looking up to her nephew with a bemused smile. 

Tommy’s eyes hadn’t moved from you once, “You came all this way, to sell me a suit?”

You fidgeted, gripping tighter on the bag in your hands. “Yes.”

He saw through your lie. 

You tried again, “And with it, networking opportunities.” 

Tommy sighed, and stretched out of his slight slouch. He pushed both hands into his pockets, facing you with a bored expression, “I’m not interested.”

Your heart sank. “I just thought—“ 

“It’s not something I need, (y/n).” His blue eyes were unreadable, but the weight of them on you stung all the same.

It was worth a shot. 

“Alright,” was all you managed in reply.

At that moment, John entered the already full space of the kitchen, his eyes immediately falling onto you. You tensed slightly, as if you’d been caught in the act of something not-allowed. 

“Oh,” He turned to Tommy, “I didn’t realise you were—“

“Don’t worry,” he replied, still looking at you, “we we’re just finishing here.”

You wished you could read his expression, desperate to decipher the harsh code between his eyes and yourself. He hadn’t been overly friendly at the race track, but he hadn’t been this. Something about the situation made your skin itch. 

Perhaps this was a terrible idea. Perhaps you should have stayed away after all. 

“John, walk (y/n) to the station.” Tommy spoke with finality. You felt your face drop. “Make sure she gets home safely.”

“I really—“

“Unless you have something else to say?” 

His question pricked your temperament, souring your words. “What I was going to say, was that I really didn’t need taking to the station. I’m perfectly capable of taking myself.”

John laughed. 

You could’ve sworn you saw the twitch of a smile in the corner of Tommy’s lips.

The stony expression returned, “That may be the case, but it’ll be on my conscience if you don’t make it back safe.”  
“Besides,” John spoke, “I’m going pas’ that way.”

“Well that’s settled.” Tommy offered you a false smile.

“Right,” you looked away from him, turning to Polly. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“And yourself, darling.” She seemed sincere, but her kindness didn’t undo the mood you’d quickly fallen into. Tommy’s coldness had set it upon you; the failure of the meeting weighed down on your shoulders.

You allowed John to guide you from the room, almost grateful to turn away from Tommy, who had since dropped you from his attention. He didn’t even glance to watch you leave and you pretended not to care.

The Shelby door slammed shut. You were on the street again, side by side with the wrong Shelby brother.

“So, d’you want to go to the station?” John had placed a cigarette in his mouth, and was stood, readjusting the collar of his long coat. “Or was that Tommy’s idea?”

“What?” You looked to him, frowning, before registering the question. “Oh. Well, I don’t see what else there is to do.”

“I could show you around.”

“No, thank you.” You just wanted to go home. The embarrassment of your rejection was beginning to bubble under your skin. 

“Not even to the Garrison?” A cheeky smile lifted into his features. “I’ll buy us a round, or two.”

You debated the idea. Leaving now would only deem the day a waste. 

“Alright, yeah. “ You allowed a smile to grace your lips. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Lovely,” he offered you a bent arm, smoking cigarette balanced in the corner of his mouth. 

You looped your hand through, linking with him, and walked on. 

The smallest part of you hoped that Tommy was watching somewhere, seeing you and John leave, with jealousy sewn into his features. But you knew he wasn’t. It was that, his indifference, that stung the most. 

You continued nonetheless, pushing all thoughts of him from your mind. All that mattered now, was John, the Garrison, and shit loads of alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're liking this!! It's turning out a lot longer than I originally anticipated it to be, but I think its going good tbh.


	3. Burdened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd failed, Tommy had rejected you, and now? You were drinking with the wrong Shelby brother, in a city far from home, with no rush to get back. It's safe to say things were far from what you'd planned them to be. But sometimes plans are made to be disrupted, and sometimes, that's all you need.

John slammed another pint onto the table in front of you, putting his own down beside it. It frothed from the lip of its glass, bubbling in all its rotten golden glory. You didn’t drink beer, you never had. But tonight was an exception, tonight you had nothing to lose and no one to hold you back. That’s what you’d told yourself anyway. 

You thanked him and took a sip. This one tasted even better than the last, and by better, you meant marginally less disgusting. 

“I’ve never seen a girl go through beers the way you do,” John laughed, watching with amusement as you took another gulp. 

You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand. 

“You see, Johnny boy.” Your finger tapped at the table to exaggerate each word, “the secret to drinking beer...is the faster you go, the less time you spend tasting it.”

He laughed, the sound ricocheting around the private room you sat in. 

You smiled to yourself, looking at your hands and the glass they held. Despite it all, you were having fun. Not even Thomas Shelby could take that from you. 

“So,’ John leant forward onto his elbows, bringing his face close to yours. He smelt of tobacco and alcohol and sweat, and you didn’t even mind; it was almost intoxicating. You wondered what it’d be like to kiss him, not that you wanted to, but you thought about it nonetheless. 

“Why are you really in Birmingham?” He continued, drawing out the ‘really’ as if he knew your secret before it had been spilled.

“Was that your plan all along?” You faked shock, holding a hand to your heart. “Get me drunk and then question me?”

He smirked. “This is you drunk then?”

You shook your head, “No. I’m relaxed and perfectly present.” You were drunk. If you weren’t seated, you were sure you’d be swaying. “Don’t ignore my question.”

“Don’t ignore mine.”

Your eyes rolled. The beer was yet to slow him. 

You shifted, discomfort seeping into your merry mood. “I don’t want to answer yours.”

“C’mon,” he nudged your elbow, “you can trust me.”

“Trust doesn’t come into it.” 

“Then what does?”

You considered this for a moment. “Pride.” You were preserving your pride.

“Pride?” 

“I didn’t think I’d said it out loud.” You took a drink, there was no point hiding it now. “I didn’t come to sell Tommy connections.”

John smirked, having got what he wanted. The rim of his beer glass lingered by his lips as he spoke, “And the sky is fucking blue. Carry on.”

“I just wanted to see him.” 

“Why?”

“Why?” You laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s…beautiful.” 

John laughed hard enough for the alcohol to slosh from his tankard. You didn’t see the humour in it, you were just telling the truth.

“He is! I’ve never been so intrigued by a man.”

“Shut up,” he was still laughing, his hands working to wipe the spilt beer from his trousers.

“You asked for the truth,” you replied, allowing a smile to grow on your face. It was a ridiculous situation, after all, and you couldn't help but catch the infection of his amusement. 

“You’re right, I did.” He was still grinning. 

“I thought that if I saw him again that maybe… well I don’t know.” You let your head drop into your hands; the room spun with the movement of it. It wasn’t the beer talking, you really didn’t know. You’d never put much thought into it. “I guess I thought if we met again we’d—“

“You wanted to fuck, didn’t you?”

You snapped your head toward him, squeezing your eyes shut as the blood rushed to you brain. “Don’t say things like that,” you began, pressing a palm to your forehead. The end of your sentence fell away, disappearing beneath the pounding of your skull.

“You alright, (Y/N)?”

“Yeah,” you opened your eyes and presented him a smile. “Could do with another beer though.”

He laughed and stood from his seat. “Coming right up.” By the door, he hesitated, turning to throw his words in your direction, “Tommy hasn’t had a woman since Grace left. So it’s not you, he just doesn’t trust them no more.”

Your throat tightened. “Go get the drinks, John.” 

He nodded and left the room. 

You sat back in your chair, finishing the dregs of your pint. The skin on your face was hot, whether it was the alcohol, or the conversation, you didn’t know. Sighing, you lifted the emptied glass and pressed its cold surface to your cheeks. You dropped your eyelids and focused on the cool in the dark. If you stayed still, with your eyes closed, you could almost convince yourself into soberness. 

The door swung open and you addressed John without bothering to look, “I think I’ve discovered a duel purpose for beer.”

Silence. That joke didn’t hit the mark like you thought it would. 

You opened your eyes, returning the glass to the table as you faced the door. 

“Oh, fuck.” You rubbed the wet from your face. “I thought it was John.”

Tommy Shelby looked back at you, a mixture of confusion and pure disbelief splattered across his features. He was frozen in place, his hand still resting on the door knob as he took in the room. 

“Are you drunk?” His expression matched his tone, and you felt your dignity prick with shame.

“No.” 

“She bloody is,” John answered from behind him, with a grinning face and two drinks.

Tommy’s hand dropped from the door as he turned, standing sideways between yourself and John. “And why is she drunk, John?”

“I’m right here.” You spoke, folding your hands in your lap. 

He waited for John to reply.

“Because she’s a modern woman, Tommy, she can drink if she likes.” He was smirking, and even sent a wink in your direction. 

You weren’t laughing, neither was Tommy. 

He turned toward you, with a look that scolded you, that stripped you back to your childhood years. You weren’t a woman to him in that moment, you were a child, one that couldn’t be trusted to look after themselves. “Lets go.”

“But I don’t want to go,” You replied, hating how your response sounded. 

“I’m not asking, (Y/N).” He clenched his jaw, extending an arm toward you, waiting for you to comply. “The Garrison isn’t a place for someone like you.”

“I think I’m fitting in just fine.” You were desperate to appear sober, but even you noticed the slight slur in your voice. 

He sighed, and continued in a bored tone, “If you don’t come with me, I will carry you out myself.”

Your heart beat faster and you were grateful that your drunken state had reddened your cheeks before he could. “Fine.” You stood, correcting your sway as best you could. “But stop treating me like a child, Tommy.”

“I will when you stop acting like one, (Y/N).” He finally looked to you; his eyes were dull with a tired-disappointment that made your stomach drop. 

“We was just having a laugh, Tommy.” John complained, watching as Tommy guided you from the room. 

“I don’t want to hear it, John.” He replied, ushering you forward. 

His hand ghosted the small of your back: it never touched you, but hovered there in waiting, ready to support you if need be. You tried to ignore it. Nodding a quick goodbye to John, you refocused your eyes on the floor, and the uncertain feet that walked it. You were stable enough, but fear of embarrassing yourself kept you from risking it. 

 

Once outside, the cold air of the night slapped into you, freeing you from the stuffy drowsiness of the Garrison. You took a deep breath, an easy smile falling onto your lips despite the situation. You loved the nighttime, you loved its quiet, and the way it felt timeless, as if nothing had a deadline once the sun had dropped behind the horizon. 

“I’ll take you to the station,” Tommy was beside you, lightning a cigarette that he balanced in his mouth. 

“Can I have one?” 

“You smoke?” he said around the cigarette, its smoke clouding his face. 

With an unexplainable burst of confidence, you reached out and plucked the cigarette from his lips. “Occasionally.”

He didn’t react, but instead watched blankly as you brought it to your mouth and took a long, awkward drag. The hot smoke hit your lungs and you coughed, water swelling in your eyes as your body rejected the foreign sensation. Your attempt at a smile failed, disrupted by another cough.

“Christ,” Tommy muttered, turning away from you. 

You followed after him, attempting to silence your coughing as you matched his pace. 

“You know, it’s rude to walk away from people like that, Tommy.”

“Is it?” He replied, in the same bored tone that seemed to haunt every conversation you had with him. 

“Yes, it is.” You were struggling to keep up, and he still wasn’t giving you the time of day.

Flicking the cigarette onto the damp ground, you came to a stop, your hands curling into fists. “I’m not going anywhere with you when you’re being like this.”

He slowed his pace, one hand lifting to rub his forehead. “Like what, (Y/N)?” He said with a sigh, before slowly turning to face you. 

“Like you can’t bare to be around me. Like I’m the biggest burden to your existence.” The alcohol-lined words were slipping from you without care; you couldn’t stop talking if you tried. “That day at the races you were nothing but charming, you made me feel really fucking amazing. So I thought, why not pay him a visit, why not get to know the real Thomas Shelby?” You sneered his name, your voice lifting to reach where he stood in the darkness. “And this is who I meet! This!” Your arms flew up to gesture toward him, “A prick with an attitude problem!”

“You’re drunk, (Y/N).”

“So? Everything I’m saying is true!” 

He took a few steps toward you, his hands resting in his pockets. “You’re drunk, and I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not going anywhere ’til you admit I’m right, or prove me wrong.” You were stubborn, and you weren’t about to lose this battle. Even if you weren’t going to remember it in the morning.

Tommy let out a heavy breath before replying, “You’re not a burden.”

“You act like I am.”

“Let me finish. You aren’t a burden, but drunk you is. If anything were to happen to you, it’d be on my conscience. Not John’s, not Pol’s, mine. And I have too much shit on my shoulders to risk that.” He was telling the truth, and the frankness in his tone demanded recognition. 

“Then why were you so cold to me? Before this?”

“You offered me a business deal, I declined. That’s all it was.”

“Liar.”

His jaw clenched, your unusual boldness caught him off guard. “Fine. I don’t want you in Birmingham, I don’t want you in Shelby business, and I don’t want you involved with me.”

“Why?” You continued to push him, sensing a victory on the horizon, “Because of Grace?”

There was a cold silence, one filled with nothing but the sharp loneliness of the night. 

You thought he was going to turn away, to give you his shoulder and nothing else, but instead he replied.

“If you already knew the answer, why did you ask?”

That, you didn’t know. You’d wanted to hear it from him, but when he phrased it like that, it seemed pointless. You chewed the inside of your lip, scouring your mind from something to say. "I'm sorry," was all you could muster, and you weren't even sure what exactly you were sorry for.

He looked to the ground for a moment before looking back at you. “Shall we continue?” 

You nodded, and to your surprise, he offered you his arm. 

“Thank-you,” you mumbled, linking your arm through his and allowing him to lead you on. In all truthfulness, you needed the added stability to navigate the cobbled street, but you couldn’t deny that the gesture warmed your cheeks and sent your heart racing. 

The two of you walked in silence. Tommy was apparently done with conversation, and you were too focused on not falling to initiate one yourself. So the quiet stayed, cloaking your pair as you walked the streets, lingering until you recognised the route you had taken. 

“Isn’t the Station the other way?”

“We aren’t going to the Station,” he replied quietly, “I don’t trust you to get yourself home, so you’ll stay with me tonight.”

You were too drowsy to react, all you were thinking about was curling up in bed, it didn't matter who's bed it was. “I was going to argue with you, but if you weren’t holding me up, I don’t think I could walk any further.”

It may have been a trick of the light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his face lift in amusement, a smile filling his plump lips. 

“Smiling suits you,” you slurred, looking at him through heavy lids, “I like smiling Tommy.”

He snorted a laugh through his nose, and walked on, shouldering more of your weight with each step. 

The walk seemed as long as it did short. Timeless, almost. 

You don’t remember reaching the Shelby household, or climbing the stairs, or even crawling into the unfamiliar bed with someone else clothes on in place of your own. 

But what you did remember, was the brush of lips against your forehead, just moments before you dropped into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the long awaited update, i hope you enjoy it!


	4. Promise Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its the morning after the night before, and you couldn't help but wish that none of this ever happened.

God, your head was sorry for the night before. 

It pounded against your skull, making you feel sea sick before you’d even moved. 

You groaned and lifted a clammy hand to hold your forehead. Alcohol had never been your friend, but now it was your enemy. It should be illegal to feel as shit as you did then. Reluctantly, you opened your eyes, blinking away the dark shapes that floated in your sight. 

The room you were in was unfamiliar, and for a moment you had entirely forgotten how you came to be in it. 

Tommy. He brought you here. 

Was this his room? You craned your neck to look around you. Single bed, plain linen, an extra blanket strung across your feet. The walls were decorated scarcely, as if it were a guest room, devoid of all the personal touches of a bedroom. A small cabinet sat beside the bed, its top empty, minus a small gas lamp. Disappointing; you’d never given much thought to how his room would look, but you’d expect it to at least show some hints of his character. 

Sighing, you dropped your eyelids again. If only you could stay here, unmoving, for the next twenty-four hours. Perfectly still as you waited for the alcohol to leave your system. But you couldn’t, you were already overstaying your welcome. The plan had been to perhaps go for a nice dinner, or talk over a cup of tea by the fire… not this. Not getting so drunk with his brother that you needed to be put to bed. His bed. 

You raised your fingertips to your brow, attempting to feel the kiss you remembered from the night before. Did you imagine that? Would he really have done that? The night before had become one thick blur of laughter and beer, and the walk home with Tommy was hazy at best. Whatever you’d spoken about couldn’t have changed him so vastly that he’d have planted a kiss on you before bed. The thought was as embarrassing as it was laughable. 

You groaned again. This was all a mess. A big pile of stinking mess. 

With great effort, you sat upright and swung your legs over the side of the bed. You had to get up, dressed, and out of this place as soon as possible. Before you did anything else to damage what was left of your dignity. 

“Fuck,” you muttered, having scanned the room again. Your clothes were nowhere to be seen. All you had was the cotton night shirt you wore. You should’ve been more concerned about waking in a strange place with your clothes missing, but your mind was ticking at half speed, slowed by the pounding of your head. 

So, you’d have to find Tommy and get your clothes back. Great. 

You stood and moved to the door, cracking it open just enough to look out. “Tommy?” You called gently, your quiet voice filling the empty hallway. No answer. He wasn’t near by. 

With a reckless confidence, you left the bedroom and padded down the hall. No one stopped you, so you continued, going down the stairs as if it were your house and not the Shelby’s. 

You’d found your way to the kitchen before bumping into anyone. 

“Oh,” you hesitated by the doorway, “sorry. I was looking for Tommy.”

The man, who you can only assume was the eldest Shelby brother, looked up from his hands. He scanned over you, taking you in from head to toe. 

“I didn’t know he had company,” Arthur commented, making you blush.

“He doesn’t.” You tugged the on the hem of your nightshirt, making sure it was long enough to touch your knees. “Well, not like that,” you were stuttering, stumbling over your words to try and explain the situation without further embarrassing yourself. “Do you know where he is?”

He nodded, folding the newspaper he had been reading in two, before pacing it on the table. “It’s not like Tommy to bring a woman home.”

You attempted to laugh. “He didn’t really have a choice…I’d been drinking with John-“

“Ah.” Arthur smirked. “That’ll do it.” 

There was a short silence. He said he knew where Tommy was, but made no attempt to go fetch him for you. You lingered by the door, too uncomfortable to invite yourself into the room, your eyes roaming the room. 

With a harsh scrape, Arthur’s chair pushed back and he stood, extending his arm to gesture you forward. You smiled and took a seat at the table, watching as he crossed the kitchen to reach into a cupboard over the sink. 

“You’ll be needing this, then,” he said, placing a glass on the table in front of you before reaching into his inside pocket. He pulled a silver flask free and unscrewed the cap, pouring whatever alcohol it was into the glass he'd given you. Just the smell of it was enough to turn your stomach. 

“No,” you smiled, “I’m okay thank-you.”

“Best way to fix your head.” He nodded toward the drink, taking a swig from the flask before tucking it away again. “One drink will do you a world of good.” 

You took the glass, swirling the dark liquid. “I’m really not much of a drinker.”

“I can tell.” He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Drink up.”

You knocked the alcohol back, wincing as it assaulted your throat. 

“Good girl,” Arthur nodded as he spoke. “I’ll get Tommy for ya.” 

You smiled and thanked him, looking at the empty glass as he turned to leave. Your head was still sore, and the room still swayed if you closed your eyes. If this was the cure Arthur promised, it had better work quickly.

“Jesus, Tommy,” Arthur laughed from the hall, “you scared the shit out of me.”

“You’re losing your touch, Arthur, I was just walking.”

“Your bird’s in the kitchen, I gave her something to take the edge off.”

“I’m sure it was much appreciated,” Tommy replied, his tone a gentle bemusement that you’d never heard before. You adjusted yourself, sitting upright and relaxing your shoulders in an attempt to look relaxed. At least he was in a good mood. 

A moment later and he was in the kitchen. You felt your breath anchor itself in your throat. 

God, he looked good. You were even tempted to say this was the most attractive he’d ever looked. 

He stood in the doorway, staring at you while he smoked his cigarette. His lips pursed as they blew smoke away from him. His sleeves were rolled and pushed to sit above his elbow. The look he gave you was lazy, relaxed. Morning sun brought out the pink in his pale skin; it illuminated his eyes and showed the hues of brown in his dark, uncombed hair. He looked younger, refreshed, and it was mesmerising. 

“Did you sleep well?” He spoke, breaking the silence. 

“I don’t know,” you answered frankly. You didn’t really remember being asleep. “Did you take my clothes?” 

He smirked, looking to the floor before replying. “No, I didn’t take your clothes. Pol’s washed them.”

“Washed them?” Oh fuck. “I didn’t…I wasn’t sick on them, was I?” Your cheeks flashed with heat.

“No, it rained on the way home and dirtied the bottom of your skirt, ” Tommy replied. “She didn’t want to send you on your way with dirty clothes.”

Tommy crossed the room to lean against the fireplace. He didn’t look at you much, but you found yourself twisting at the waist to keep your eyes on him. 

“That’s kind of her.” It was. It was inconvenient, but kind nonetheless. You glanced down at the nightshirt you wore, another wave of blush shooting to your cheeks. You couldn’t look at him as you asked, “Did you dress me?”

“Pol changed you, then I put you to bed.” He replied, his eyes on the ash he knocked from his cigarette. 

“Oh.” You tucked your chin to hide your smile. So it was Tommy. It was his lips that you felt. “Thank-you.”

“It’ll only happen that once." He exhaled. "Next time, you’re on your own in whatever ditch you fall down.”

The smile quickly vanished. “Of course.” How fucking embarrassing. “I’m not normally like that.”

He snorted. “John is a hard man to keep up with.”

You nodded. 

It would be a lie to say Tommy was fond of you now. Whatever happened last night clearly hadn’t been enough to change things. So what? He kissed your forehead and kept you safe, there aren't many men that wouldn't do the same. It meant nothing. You were making something out of nothing. 

This was still a waste of time. He still wanted nothing to do with you. You were the fool, sat there in night clothes that weren’t yours, begging for the attention of a man that didn’t want you. It was pathetic. It wasn’t you. 

“(Y/N)?”

You looked up, straight into his gaze. He was facing you now, waiting for the respond to a question you hadn’t heard. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“I asked what you were doing today.”

He wanted rid of you. “Right. Nothing, I’ll get dressed.”

Tommy laughed and shook his head slightly. “I’m not telling you to go, I’m asking for your help.”

“What?” Surely he was mocking you now. “With what?”

“Do you know horses?”

“Horses,” you repeated. You went to the races, you watched people dwindle their money on them, but know them? “Hardly.”

He took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it into the fireplace. “There’s an auction, today. I was going to ask Arthur, but now I’m asking you.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he stepped froward, looking down at where you sat, “I think you know what people bet on. You know which horses make money and which don’t. And that's the kind of information that is of use to me.”

“I mean, I guess I do. But, I don’t know if I’d be right.” This was a lot a responsibility for a hungover girl with little experience. 

“I’m just after your opinion.” 

He placed his hand on the back of your chair. He was close enough now that you could smell the aftershave he wore. 

“That’s all.” His voice was soft, soothing, "Any decision I make would be of my own will."

You swallowed. “Alright. I’ll come.”

“Good.” He nodded and stood from the lean he’d adopted. “Pol will find you something to wear, your clothes will be dry by the time we’re back.”

That’s it? You were at least expecting a smile, a thank-you…

“We’ll be leaving in an hour.” 

You nodded. 

You didn’t even know what time it was. You hadn’t eaten, or looked in the mirror. You’d be wearing clothes that weren’t yours, to go and give advice on things you weren’t qualified to give advice on. And yet, you couldn't have been more excited. You and Tommy. Alone. Together. Most importantly, you’d be sober. 

It was the closest thing to a miracle you were ever going to get. 

 

—————

 

Having changed into what Polly gave you, and arranged your hair into a somewhat presentable up-do, you left the house. Tommy was already in the car, waiting with his flat cap on and his hands gipping the wheel. He didn’t acknowledge your arrival on the road so you sped up, half-jogging to reach the passenger side. The last thing you wanted was to keep him waiting. 

You climbed in and pulled the door shut, letting out a large breath before speaking. “Sorry, it took a while to…” You gestured to yourself vaguely. “I’m ready now.”

He turned to look you over. “You look a lot better than you did.”

“Thank-you,” you replied, ignoring his poor attempt at a compliment. “I feel a lot better. Arthur might be on to something.”

He snorted and put the car into gear. “Whatever you do, (Y/N), don’t take drinking advice from Arthur.” 

You weren’t sure if he was joking or not, so you just smiled and looked through the window. It was quiet from then, but you didn’t mind, there was no awkwardness or discomfort. Just two people watching the city pass by.

You’d forgotten to ask where about this auction was, but really it didn’t matter. You didn’t know the area anyway. What mattered was that Tommy had asked for your help, which meant that on some level, he trusted you. Or liked you. Perhaps even both. Whatever the reason, it mattered, and you couldn’t help but imagine where this new glimmer of hope would take you.

“I need you to promise me something,” Tommy’s voice disrupted your daydream. 

“Hmm?” You turned to him.

He had one hand on the wheel, the other arm resting on the window frame of his door. He looked to you for a moment before refocusing on the road. 

“Promise you what?”

“That after this, that’s it.” He cleared his throat. “You go back to London, and you don't come back.”

“Tommy-“

“Promise me, (Y/N). Promise me you'll forget all about me.”

You stared at him. Words clogged your throat. 

How could he ask that? 

“Why?” 

Those blue eyes found yours again, just for a second. “Because of what I said last night.”

Fuck. “I don’t remember what you said last night,” you replied, attempting to keep your voice steady. You'd hate to sound as desperate as you felt. 

He sighed. “Can you just do it for me? Can you promise me that after today you’ll take yourself home and-“

“No. I can’t.” 

You noticed his hand clench around the wheel but you continued regardless.

“I won’t promise that without good reason.” 

The car ground to a halt. Whether that meant you’d arrived at your destination, or you’d royally pissed him off, you didn’t know. 

Tommy sighed, running a hand over his face. “I can’t have a girl like you around Shelby business, (Y/N).”

“A girl like me?” You didn’t know what that meant. He barely knew you, after all. “You don’t know what type of girl I am, Tommy.”

You weren’t sure where your bite was coming from, but you were thankful. It was about time someone put Thomas Shelby in his place.

“I won’t argue with you.”

“Then don’t talk to me like I’m thick!”

He sighed, his jaw setting tightly as he looked through the windscreen. “I just want you to promise me you’ll give up whatever motivates you to pursue me.”

He’d seen right through you. He knew that was why you came to Birmingham and frankly, you didn’t even care. 

“I won’t do that, Tommy,” you replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I think on some level, you want to pursue me too.”

You’d said it. It had fallen from your mouth before you had chance to regret it, to think twice of pushing your own interpretation of his feelings into the open, awkward, space between you. 

His head twisted to meet your gaze. His expression was unreadable, blank. He was giving you nothing.

“That’s why you’re trying to scare me off, because you care about me,” you continued, eager to be proven right, to get the answer you wanted. 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he popped the door and got out. Hands in pockets, he walked around the front of the car with his eyes to the ground. Your heart stammered against your chest. You’d fucked it, you’d ruined it all. 

He reached your door and yanked it open. 

“Get out.”

You obliged, stepping down awkwardly and moving out of the way as he shut the door behind you. You chewed your lip, watching as he paced for a moment before finally facing you. 

“I won’t ask you again, (Y/N).” His voice was steady, controlled and edged with a coolness that you couldn’t dispute. 

“Was I right?”

“(Y/N).” 

Fine. 

“Fine,” you spat. “I promise that after this you’ll never see me again.”


	5. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You promised to forget him. How plausible it was to do that, you didn't know. You weren't even sure you wanted to try.

The auction house was unlike anything you’d seen before. You were always at the races, but never in the know of how it worked, never asking questions and getting answers. Your position was to entertain, to go with the men and make them feel good. But a horse auction? That was something else entirely. You weren’t just a spectator here, you were a possible buyer, an intelligent eye. Tommy saw that. He had wanted you here, not for your looks, but for what you could teach him. 

If the whole damn thing hadn’t been tainted by the argument just before, you’d be giddy from the newness of it all.

'Here,' Tommy spoke, directing you to the railing of the upper floor. You leant against it, happy to have some relief from standing, and let your eyes run over the floor below. 

It was best to view the horses from above, Tommy had told you, it let you see the bidders and the handlers, as well as the livestock. You weren’t sure how that was helpful, but you didn’t question it. 

‘It’ll be starting in a moment,’ he said, resting his forearms on the bannister as you had done. 

It almost made you laugh. He was adamant that he wanted you gone, that he didn’t want anything to do with you, and yet his body betrayed him. He mimicked your posture without even realising: his shoulders were tilted toward you, his eyes lingered longer than they should...If it wasn’t for what he had said earlier, you’d have assumed he was trying to flirt with you. 

‘What is it exactly you want from me?’ You mused.

Cool eyes ran over you as he calculated a response. ’I want to know what type of horse makes the gambling man place his bets.’

You raised an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

Tommy snorted, letting his gaze fall from you to the betting floor. ‘You don’t know much about me, do you Miss (y/l/n)?’

That stung. ‘We’re on last name formalities again?’ You asked, bitterness laced into your tone as you ignored his comment. ‘Should I be calling you Mr Shelby?’

He sighed heavily. You were annoying him. You could see it in the tension of his jaw and the wringing of his hands. 

‘I didn’t mean to,’ he replied, tightly. ‘I just meant-‘

‘You don’t seem like the type to slip up like that.’ 

‘I don’t always say what I mean,’ he replied.

He wasn’t looking at you. Perhaps he was afraid to, or perhaps he just didn’t care to.

Before you could respond, the rabble below was drawn into silence, following the wooden strike of the auctioneers hammer. It was beginning. Beside you, Tommy had straightened, standing with just a palm as support against the barrier. His eyes were glued on the pen below, which was soon occupied by a dark brown horse. 

The handler led it around the perimeter, giving everyone the opportunity to view their possible purchase. The horse was taller than most and its muscles were highlighted by the shimmer of its coat. Beautiful, of course. You didn’t have any professional stance to qualify it, but it would make a fine racer.

‘So?’ Tommy spoke, watching it circle. ‘What d’you think?’

You hesitated. What did he want you to say? That it was an impressive looking horse? That you could imagine it on the track? 

‘I think,’ you cleared your throat, ‘that people would see it as a safe bet?’ 

Your statement had twisted into a question thanks to your own doubt, a question that Tommy answered with a nod.

Validated, you continued, ‘I’ve seen wealthy men reluctant to place money on horses like that. A win wouldn’t earn them much, and they’re motivated by greed so…’

‘So they choose something with more risk.’ 

You smiled faintly. The anxiety slipped from your chest, dripping down your legs to the floor, along with any worries you had. You were useful. What you had to say mattered. 

‘Are you going to bid?’ You asked. 

Tommy shook his head, offering no reasoning as to why, and continued to watch the floor below. 

Silence cloaked the two of you until the next horse was brought out: A stallion, its coat white as hot coal. It insisted on trotting around the pen, or refused to move at all, much to the handlers distain. You chewed your lip, pondering how an animal so stubborn could ever be ridden, let alone raced. 

‘That’s a risk,’ Tommy commented, gesturing to the stallion.

‘Perhaps too much of one?’

He smiled slightly, then shook his head. ‘Any horse can be broken, (y/n).’

‘That doesn’t mean it should be.’

Tommy cocked an eyebrow. ‘You want to discuss the ethics of horse racing?’

‘No,’ you shook your head, ‘I was just thinking aloud.’

His eyes were alight with something you didn’t quite understand, perhaps a quiet admiration. Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and his iced expression returned. 

‘So, say that horse becomes a racer, which of your gentleman friends are betting on it?’

You thought about it. Clive/Clark (his name was as irrelevant now as it was then) didn’t bet on any horse that wasn’t brown. But whether that was a peculiarity of his, or a reflection of some sort of superstition, you didn’t know. 

‘I’m not sure.’ 

You watched the stallion carefully. It was hypnotising. 

‘Young men,’ you said, talking as the creature completed another lap of the pen, ‘with money that wasn’t rightfully theirs. They bet on anything with spirit. I watched one of them put all of his money on one horse, because he saw it bolt from its stable before the race.’

It was as baffling now as it was then. 

‘He lost it all, of course.’ 

And you never saw him or his family money again. 

Tommy didn’t laugh as you thought he would, but instead raised his hand slightly, getting the attention of the auctioneer. 

This? This was the horse he was going to bid on?

‘Tommy,’ you stuttered, ‘surely you don’t-‘

‘I don’t want the horse, (y/n),’ he replied cooly, ‘I just want to run the bids up.’

‘What?’ You frowned. ‘Why?’

He stole a glance your way. A smirk ghosted his lips. 

The bid was rising higher and higher, with Tommy enabling it, nodding to the auctioneer in between buyers. You watched in silence, full of confusion and amusement. Would he really bid, just for the sake of it? For fun?

You weren’t certain on a fair price for the stallion, but you were positive the bid had gone above and beyond that now. 

‘Look,’ Tommy spoke quietly, holding his head still.

You followed his line of sight, eventually falling upon an older man who stood against the railing on the opposite side of the room. He was looking to Tommy, rage laced into the creases of his skin, his hands grabbing tightly around a rolled newspaper. With a huff, he raised his hand, meeting the auctioneers latest offer. He wanted the stallion, that much was clear. And Tommy’s repeated interference made his reddened face even redder. 

‘You’ve got competition, Tommy.’

‘Aye.’ He was smug. For whatever reason he was enjoying the game, and enjoying the man’s anger even more.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Not yet.’

Yet? You looked between the two of them. ‘Who is he?’

He shook his head, which was more toward the auctioneer than you. ‘It’s nothing you should worry about.’

He was out of the bid. The old man across the room had gotten his prize, and at a much higher price than anyone would have expected.

The sale was finished off and the next horse was bought into the pen. 

It was clockwork: A horse would come in, you’d give your input and answer whatever vaguely stimulating question Tommy sent your way, and the horse would be led out again; bought buy someone other than your temporary business partner. By the end of it, you’d found yourself dry of any reasonable advice. Tommy had only made bids on the white stallion and you couldn’t help but think his lack of purchase was down to your own incompetence. He’d thanked you for coming, claimed it was very insightful to have you there, but you didn’t believe him. Even when you thought a horse would be a money-earner, he’d ignored it. 

It wasn’t worth dwelling on and yet it was all you thought of for the entire ride home. Tommy drove in silence; you didn’t care to disturb him. 

Any bond the two of you had, had slowly withered and died in that auction house. It shrank away until you were strangers again, making polite conversation, enduring for the sake of endurance. 

You were almost relieved when he dropped you off at the station. 

'You’re sure I can keep these?' you asked, pulling lightly at the clothes you wore. He nodded, telling you yet again that it was fine, that he’d mail your clothes back to you, that Ada didn’t even know she’d left the ones you wore behind. 

It seemed he was just as keen to return you as you were to leave. 

'Thank-you,' you attempted to smile. 

Tommy was stood opposite you, his hands in his pockets, looking at you from under the peak of his cap. He gave a heavy sigh. There was something bothering him. 

You hoped it was your departure. 

He looked to the ground to speak, avoiding your eyes without attempting to hide the fact he was doing so. 'It was nice meeting you, (y/n).'

'I’m not sure I can say the same, Mr. Shelby.' It wasn’t exactly a lie. Whether it was the last tendrils of your hangover, or the weight of the promise you’d made, you didn’t know, but meeting Thomas Shelby had left nothing but a sour taste in your mouth and a rock in your chest. 

The corner of his lip twitched in amusement, 'And now you’re the one using last names.'

'If I’m to keep my promise, I’ll have to work backwards.' You weren’t sure whose words you were speaking. They were foreign on your tongue, laced in a growing coldness - a last minute self-preservation attempt. 'When I get on the train I’ll have forgotten you completely.'

His chin fidgeted. 

You’d call it a nod, but you didn’t want to accept that he was fine with the idea. That everything was going as he’d planned and you’d get on that train and the door would shut he’d walk away as if you’d never met. 

You felt tears swelling in your eyes.

'Well,' you clutched the strap of your bag, as if it would keep you from crying. 'Goodbye.'

'Goodbye, (y/n).'

He was still using your first name. He kept hold of that intimacy.

You turned away from him without taking in his face, without absorbing the cool features and sharp edges for a final time. Whatever memory you’d grow to cherish of Tommy, deserved to be more than a fleeting look on a train platform. You had no right to be upset, no right to be crying, to be mourning as your short relationship collapsed. So you wouldn’t.

You‘d get on the train and forget it. Forget the whole damn thing. Tommy, John, Pol, the lot of them. The Shelby name would drop from your mind and never return. You’d forcibly free yourself from the intoxication of Thomas Shelby if it killed you. It may have been melodramatic to think that way, but you didn’t care. Melodrama is a sure cure for misery. 

The seat you’d chosen was firm and tattered, its cushion falling apart from age and negligence. You made sure to keep your eyes down, focusing so intently on the hem of Ada’s cardigan that you failed to notice the man sitting down opposite you. 

The train had been clunking along for half an hour before he spoke to you. 

'You were at the auction, no?'

Your eyes shot up. At first you didn’t recognise him. Without the anger, and the frustration, his wrinkled face was shallow, sagging. A sack of extra skin planted over rounded features. 

It was the man Tommy bid against. The one who bought the white stallion and paid the price no man should’ve paid. 

'Sorry?' you were stalling. His accent was tinged with the nuances of Italy, but you’d heard him clearly. You just weren’t ready for conversation. 

'With Mr Shelby,' he continued, goading you into a response.

'Oh.' You didn’t bother to wonder how he knew Tommy. 

'You’re too nice for a man like that, bella.'

You rolled your eyes. This was the last thing you wanted. The final shit on top of the shit cake. 

A forced smile crept onto your lips. 'I don’t really know him.' Something inside of you told you to lie, to lace your conversation with the man in falsity, so you did. 'I was there on behalf of my father.'

He seemed disappointed with your answer. A small victory at least. 

After a moment, he removed the short rimmed hat he wore, placing it on the seat beside him. The hair beneath was balding and combed to one side. His thick lips pulled into a smile and he began to say something about your eyes, so you interrupted him.

'Excuse me,' you said, standing. You took your bag with you, having no intention to return to the seat you’d chosen. You’d stand for the rest of the journey if it meant escaping lecherous men and the Shelby name. 

To your luck, there was a seat in the next carriage over, beside a petite woman dressed in blue. She seemed as relieved as you were when you sat down with a smile. 

It would be poetic to say that the rest of the journey was quick. That it was over before your mind could stray back to Birmingham and the man you'd left behind. But that wasn’t the case. 

It was long and uncomfortable and you’d spent each minute of it wishing you could turn around. It turned out Tommy Shelby wasn’t a person you could easily forget. Nor one that you wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this took so long, ive been in a bit of a writing slump
> 
> im not even sure i like this chapter but i promise the next one will be better!!!!


	6. Stolen time

It's strange how swiftly time can pass. 

Each day felt like two, each week like a fortnight. You barely noticed as Christmas came and went, barely blinked as you welcomed in a new year. Your father told you it was a sign of age, of growing up. That time didn't wait for you. Mother had realised it too, and her attempts to pair you off with wealthy clients had gradually declined until they stopped completely. Not that you minded. There was always someone younger and prettier, and more willing. You hadn't been to the races since the year before and you didn't want to anyway; the sport had been tainted, being around horses brought nothing but a sick weight in your stomach. 

You sighed and turned the page, the ink of the newspaper leaving your fingertips grubby, and read the next headline. Politics. Always politics. You skimmed and flicked onto the next. 

The morning was still, edging its way into afternoon without excitement, and you had nothing beckoning you. No plans, no jobs. Sundays were always quiet. It was the only day you stopped to read the paper, for lack of anything better to do. 

A brisk sound interrupted your activity. A loud, confident knock on your front door. 

You glanced to the clock, as if the time would offer any clues as to who was visiting, before going to the hall. Door unlocked, you pulled it open, ready to slam it shut again as soon as your eyes fell upon the man behind. 

Tommy Shelby. Tommy fucking Shelby. 

'(Y/n), you look well.'

You almost swung for him. His unexpected visit was nothing but a grim reminder of the time he'd stolen from you. You'd become perfectly content with never seeing his sculpted face again, never being intoxicated by his scent, never-

'Are you going to let me in?' he said, pinching the cigarette from his mouth and flicking it aside. 

Your grip tightened on the door. ‘No,’ you barked, impulsively. Let him in? He'd gone mad; his cap was on too tight, clearly. 

He stared for a moment. You hadn't missed the blankness of it. 'Very well,' he replied. 

You couldn't wipe the confusion from your face. Your brows knitted together and your mouth stumbled for something more to say. 

Then, he pushed his hands into his pockets and turned, walking away from your house with a slight bounce in his step. Watching him leave was too uncomfortable, too nonsensical, too much entirely.

'Christ.' You shut the door with a heavy breath and leant against it as the weight of the interaction sank upon you. What was he doing? How could he just? After months of nothing, after you'd finally accepted it...

You raised a hand to your brow, cursing yourself for what you were about to do. 

Keys in your pocket, thick coat wrapped around you, you hurried down the road in pursuit. You weren't even positive you'd find him again, sure that he knew the area on a level you did not - back alleys and side streets seemed natural to him - but you carried on regardless. The air was crisp and cool and tinged with the last breaths of winter, your face chilled to soreness before you'd reached the end of your road. 

Squinting, you searched the junction for the cap and coat you'd thought you'd never see again - to no avail. He had indeed slipped through some crack in the city, and disappeared completely. You hated the heart-stopping disappointment that crept into your chest and turned before you could dedicate more time to that wild goose chase. 

Back home, you pushed the door closed and began unravelling yourself. Had you imagined it? Was your subconscious mocking you one last time, tricking you into thinking he'd appeared? The coat slipped from your shoulders and to the ground. In your daydream, you'd entirely forgotten to catch it. 

'Are you alright?' Robert's voice brought you back to reality. He stood on the stairs, paused in his descent, to question your strangeness. 'You look pale as anything.'

'Yes,' you replied, as you reached for your coat, 'just being clumsy.' The coat was on the hook and you were present again, all thoughts of Tommy brushed under the floorboards. 

Robert smiled, satisfied, and continued walking. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his cinnamon hair was damp. He combed it as he spoke, pushing it back into the neat style you were used to, 'Where've you been, dear?' 

'Nowhere.' You smiled. He didn't need to know. It'd raise more questions than answers. 

Nodding, Robert took a final step toward you. He thought you were quirky, full of unusual traits and novelty, he didn't realise you were just impulsive. 'My strange girl-'

You kissed him to stop him speaking. When you pulled back, his lips were brushed with red and his cheeks rosy. He was most handsome like this, rose-tinted, it almost made you love him. 

'Shall we go for brunch?' he asked, before stealing another kiss. 

You nodded. The day would continue as it was supposed to. With you and Robert, and fresh, tangible romance. 

 

——————

 

‘What’re you doing here?’ your mother asked as you entered the shop. 

It wasn’t a pleasant greeting, but it wasn’t all too surprising either. She’d met you with worse comments.

‘Seeing a client.’ 

‘You?’

You set about your business, ignoring her confusion. You unbuttoned your coat, hung it behind the counter, fluffed your hair and took a deep breath. It wasn’t unusual for your father to ask you to meet with clients (it was your job to take orders and measurements after all) but, it was unusual for you to meet with new clients; he liked to reserve the sales and money side of things for himself.

‘Father asked me to cover for him while he was away.’ You finally answered her, watching as she swept the corners of the shop floor. 

It was quiet as Wednesdays often were, but it didn’t worry you. Your parent's business thrived on loyalty and repeat customers. Those that weren’t here today would be tomorrow, or the day after. 

‘Are they here yet?

She nodded. Her silence inspiring little confidence. 

‘Fuck.’ You knew you’d been running late but you’d hoped the client was too. Spinning on the spot, you started toward the back, following the short corridor into one of two fitting rooms. Each door had a dappled window embedded in its wood, and only one held the back-lit silhouette of a man. 

You entered and shut the door behind without looking at him. You needed a moment to gather yourself in order to present any sort of professional demeanour. 

With a deep breath, you began, ‘I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting.’

Your eyes met the crystalline blue that you dreamed about. 

He watched as your face morphed from shock, to disbelief, and finally, anger. He stood from where he was sitting and stepped toward you. ‘(Y/n),’ he said quietly.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Tommy?’ you burst, your cheeks hot with rage. 

‘I want to talk.’

‘Talk?’ You scoffed. It wasn’t often you found yourself lost for words, but it seemed Tommy Shelby was capable of bringing all range of troubles into your life. ‘What is wrong with you?’ 

He pushed his hands into his pockets and waited. He knew better than to lie, he could see in your agitation that you were long past believing him. For the first time, his stillness felt like a victory. 

‘You can’t just appear one day, just to leave again without any explanation!’ You were stuttering, struggling to express the fury bubbling beneath. ‘Then show up here, of all places! How did you even—‘

‘You told me your father was a tailor, I just used your name and common sense.’

‘You tricked me into meeting you.’ 

The statement hung in the air. He didn’t deny it; for that’s what it was.

‘You’re unbelievable. You’re absolutely unbelievable.’ You huffed. ‘You know what? No, we aren’t doing this. You don’t get to talk to me, you don’t get to have my time.’ You turned and made for the door.

‘Don’t.’ Tommy barked, moving quickly between you and the exit. ‘Please,' he attempted to soften the blow of his order, 'just sit down and talk to me. Hear what I have to say.’

You took a step back, the small space between you was too choking, too intense, too familiar. ‘No. I don’t want to, Tommy.’

His jaw tensed. 

‘(Y/n),’ he said, ‘please stay.’ 

There was something in his voice, something in the softness it carried, that made your anger slip. 

‘Just for ten minutes.’ He cleared his throat, as if forcing away the sentiment that had lodged there. ‘And then you can be on your way.’

You took a moment, hoping your prolonged silence would shake him slightly. Let him know that you weren’t happy about this, and you weren’t forgiving him, and you didn’t want to see him any more now than you did last week. No, your agreement was a favour. Mercy. You were humouring him, nothing more than that. 

‘Okay,’ you replied, ‘ten minutes.’

He nodded a thank-you and extended his hand, gesturing for you to take a seat, as if this was his workplace, not yours. You bit your tongue and obliged, the pair of you sitting down together for the first time in months. 

In your time apart, you had sometimes wondered how a reunion between the two of you would go. Now you were here, you hated yourself for it. Your life had moved on without Thomas Shelby. You weren’t quite the woman you were then, and it was certain he had changed too. Being there, beside him in that small fitting room, felt like stepping into the past. Into the flicker of something that was never really there in the first place. 

You'd be lying if you said it felt good. It felt strange and foreign, and nothing like you imagined it would have. 

You picked nervously at your hands as he began to speak.


	7. Good Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd asked for ten minutes; ten minutes to explain it and then you could leave. You should've known it would never work out that way.

‘I’ve got fifty men, good men, moving to London.’ He left the statement to hang, as he reached into his pocket for a cigarette.

‘You can’t smoke in here,’ you scolded. There were no rules against it, but you wanted to stretch what little power you had over the situation as far as you could. If that meant stopping him from smoking, then so be it. 

Tommy cocked his head slightly, as if waiting for you to admit you were joking. When you didn’t, he made a face, and slotted the cigarette back into his breast-pocket. Checkmate, Mr. Shelby.

He cleared his throat before he started again. ‘These men need suits, fine suits. I want you to make them.’

You blinked. Part of you hoped you’d imagined it, that he hadn’t really come to talk business. That when you looked again he’d pardon himself and say something different, something worthwhile. Of all the things that lay awkwardly between you, business was the least relevant, you hadn’t even really extended a deal to him in the first place; it was just chat, empty statements to open a conversation.

Tommy carried on as if your silence had meant compliance. ‘I’ll arrange for them to come in groups, so you can get their measurements. I’ll pay half what’s owed before and half once they’re ready.’ 

‘Tommy.’ You shook your head, willing the discussion back a few feet. You huffed, your mouth struggling to work in partnership with your brain. 'What are you talking about?’

‘Fifty suits, (y/n),’ he said plainly. ‘For fifty men.’

‘Why would I work for you?’ was the first question to fall from your mouth. 

‘Because it’s money in your father’s pocket,’ he replied as if it were obvious.

You scoffed, looking away from him. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’ll pay you more than the usual rate, given the mass and time-‘

‘Tommy, it’s not about money!’ You flicked your eyes back to him, your brows bent in disbelief. ‘Why would I work for you when you declined my business once before? When you made me promise to forget you?’

His jaw clenched, his eyes falling to the floor. It was almost an act of submission; the closest thing he could muster. 

‘You come back, after months,’ you stressed, fidgeting forward in your seat. ‘And you want to talk business? Am I not owed an explanation?’

He exhaled through his nose. 'I can’t give you one.’

‘Then why are we even talking?’ You wished you’d sounded strong, cold like he could be, but instead your voice was tainted with distress. 

The room stayed quiet for a moment. You couldn’t look at him; your face was turned to the window and the passing figures behind it. 

You may as well have been talking to a child, a child who didn’t know what they wanted and therefore couldn’t give any explanations for their behaviour. Although, that couldn’t have been the case. Tommy Shelby didn’t seem a man to be confused by his wants; everything he did was with cold precision. And yet, you couldn’t steady yourself in the relationship you had. Nothing he said matched up. He was sat less that a yard away, and still managed to keep the separation between you absolute; you knew him even less than you did before.

‘When you came,’ he said, ‘I had no use for a tailor in London. Now I do. That’s all it is.’

‘That’s all it is,’ you repeated. You were still looking away from him with a lost smile etching into your cheeks.

In your periphery, you saw him nod. ‘Just business.’

‘And suppose I agree? Do I still have to pretend that you don’t exist?’ You were speaking as if it were an old joke, one tinted with the sad acceptance that it would never really be funny again. 

He sighed and said your name. You turned to meet his eyes again, relishing in the tension that sat in his features; it was satisfying to know that, where you had adopted a dejected humour about it all, he had become more and more agitated. It was a small win, but one nonetheless.

‘I can’t do business with a man I don’t know, Mr Shelby.’ You were pushing him and you didn’t care.

‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, catching you off guard. You’d anticipated more business strategy, more brash indifference. Direct questions and honest answers was a scenario you never even imagined. 

You paused, taking a moment to prioritise the chaos of questions in your head before speaking. ‘You’re sending men to London?’

He nodded. 

‘Why?’

‘Expansion.’

‘Of what?’ 

His face stayed frozen on yours; you wouldn’t get an answer to that question. 

You swallowed and redirected yourself. ‘Okay, why did you leave last Sunday? Why didn’t you stay and arrange an appointment then? That is, if you really came for business.’

‘I did.’ He sighed and leant forward, forearms on his thighs, hands together. ‘There are men, bad men-‘

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m too innocent to understand things,’ you quipped. Hot flush rose to your cheeks; you were tired of being treated like a child, you’d lived long enough to know the world had its darkness. 

‘Alright, there are Italians keeping an eye on me. I didn’t want them to see me outside your house, or to know where you lived.’

He’d expected his explanation to satisfy you, but all it did was stir a fury within your stomach. ‘So you brought them here?’ you spat, still unable to believe it as you said it yourself. ‘To my fucking family’s livelihood?’ 

‘There’s nothing unusual about me visiting a tailor’s,’ he explained, carefully; aware of his own precarious position. ‘Standing outside of your house - talking to a woman - that makes you a weakness.’

‘A weakness!’ You almost laughed, failing to see the severity of what he was saying. 

‘If they think you mean something to me, that gives them something they can use.’ He was speaking through his teeth, and you could see his patience for you had just about worn thin. ‘I was keeping you safe.’

You scoffed. There was nothing to say he was even being watched, no evidence that they were following him. A five minute conversation would’ve done no more harm than good.

‘You wanted an explanation, (y/n). I’ve given it.’

You didn’t say anything for a while. You didn’t know what was appropriate; couldn’t find the words to untangle the mess the pair of you had created. 

'That promise-‘

‘Another precaution,’ he answered. 

You nodded. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him. The worst part, was that you did. You believed all of it. You just didn’t like it. 

His efforts to keep you safe told you one thing you’d never anticipated: that he cared; he cared enough about you to protect you from threats that weren’t even there yet. He’d told you to forget him, dropped you off at the station like you were nothing, and all because he cared? The thought of it was so unnatural, so disorientating to the life you’d made without him, that you almost wished it was lie. Things would be easier if he didn’t care at all. 

‘I can go somewhere else.’ 

‘No,’ you stopped him. ‘We’ll make the damn suits.’ 

If your response had surprised him, he didn’t show it. His face had become the cool mask he relied so heavily upon. He nodded, saying nothing as you rose up from your seat. 

‘I need to get my father’s diary.’ You were already moving to the door, not bothering to look back at him. ‘Wait here.’

You half expected him to disappear again, but he was there when you came back, waiting in the same place you’d left him. 

He was quiet as you made the arrangements, saying nothing as you attempted to manoeuvre the side of your father’s work that you had little experience with, giving answers only when you needed them. He didn’t even comment as you struggled with the numbers. He just waited, quiet and patient. 

It’d been so peaceful that you’d forgotten your company entirely. Anyone could’ve been sat opposite you, and you wouldn’t have known the difference. 

‘That’s everything,’ you said with finality, reshuffling the wad of money he had handed you. He’d kept to his promise: half now, half then, and more than the usual rate. 

He nodded and stood from his seat. ‘One more thing.’

You hummed, too busy with your hands to look up at him. 

‘Would you accompany me to dinner?’

The paper froze, and you with it. Dinner? You darted your face toward him. 

‘Tonight.’

‘What?’ You frowned, babbling. ‘But, what about business?’

He raised an eyebrow as he folded his coat over his arm. ’I thought we were done?’

‘We are. But-’

A flash of something went over his face, something like pleasure. Like he’d caught the thing he’d been chasing, and stood there prideful. Smug in his achievement. ‘Good. Dinner it is. I’ll send a car at eight.’

Tommy was out of the door before you had a chance to tell him no; you were left alone with the plans that had been made for you, left to scramble for some logic in the situation. 

He’d said he was here on business, just business. 

‘That’s all it is,’ you said to yourself, as if the words would reveal something more when you said them aloud. They didn’t; they just tangled themselves into the confusion. 

You set the paper down, put the notes aside, shut all thoughts of business from your mind. Without it all you could focus on the facts. That Tommy was here, in London; that you were going for dinner; that he cared; that everything up until that point had been some sort of expression of such, despite its blunt application. 

All that was left to think about was Tommy, and you didn’t mind in the slightest. 

 

——————————

 

That evening you found yourself lingering, stuck between going to dinner with Tommy, and staying home, ignoring that the invite had ever been made. You’d started getting ready, more from obligation than excitement. You’d done your hair, your make-up, you’d even spent ten minutes deciding which underwear set to wear. But that was far as you’d got. 

Now you stood, in the cream-coloured underwear you’d chosen, frozen between the two doors to your wardrobe. 

Tommy inviting you to dinner could very well have been a show of politeness, a bit of expense to celebrate the deal. You could go and eat, engage in polite conversation, there was nothing wrong with it. You’d been to enough meals with clients to know it didn’t have to mean something. 

And yet, there was that something extra. That small glimpse that itched at your insides, the one that told you this wasn’t a dinner of business, it was one of pleasure; of expanding the thing between you into something more palatable. 

You groaned and rested your forehead to the green wood in your hands. 

It was badly timed; Robert had climbed the stairs, crossing the hallway into your room as the sound escaped your lips. 

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, standing by the door.

You didn’t have to look to know he was afraid of your nudity, scared of the bare skin between the fabric. He kept his distance as if there were an invisible cage around you.

You’d been together for a couple months and still you’d gone no further than kissing. It was your fault really; he’d approached you wrong once, caught you off-guard while you were changing, and you’d responded so quickly, so fiercely, that he hadn’t tried since. Neither of you had spoken about it. You hadn’t even bothered to explain to him why you’d snapped, you’d just exploded and sent him away. It was a thing you didn’t need to discuss until you loved him. 

And that hadn’t happened yet. 

‘I’ve nothing to wear,’ you lied. 

‘You’re going out?’

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the assortment of fabric in front of you. ‘I’m meeting a client for dinner.’

You heard the floorboard creak, felt him shifting uncomfortably. He knew the arrangements of your meetings with clients previously, it was how the two of you had met after all, so you were in no surprise to hear his concern. 

‘I thought you were done with that,’ he said. 

‘I am.’ You flushed a smile and looked to him, doing your best to reassure. ‘This is different. Father’s out of town, so I’m picking up the slack. It’s just good business.’

‘Oh.’ He nodded. ‘Right.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Robert.’

You surprised yourself with how easy it was to lie to him. Looking at him, standing there with concern stitched into his core, set a pre-emptive guilt in your chest. You hadn’t even gone to see Tommy yet, and you were starting to regret it. What you had with Robert was different, it was slow and intoxicating with its sentiment. But it was something. You and Tommy were playing with nothing. 

‘Come here,’ you said, extending your hand with a smile. ‘Help me pick.’

Robert obliged, taking your hand and focusing on the open wardrobe instead of your body. It bothered you in a way that it never had previously. 

Tommy drank you in. Every second you spent with him was sandwiched between glances at your lips, your body, your eyes… he stared at you unafraid of being caught. 

Robert wasn’t like that. He was quiet and gentle, looking at you when you wouldn’t notice him doing so. For a moment, you considered kissing him. Throwing yourself into the heat of it, wrapping your legs around him, willing him to go on. If you did, maybe things would feel different. 

You wouldn’t feel guilty about going to dinner with Tommy; you’d be so smitten, so in love, that seeing him would mean nothing more than seeing any other client. Because you had Robert. And because things were good and you loved him. 

Except you didn’t; you didn’t love him. As much as you wished you did, for the selfish reason that it would put an end to your indecision, you didn’t. 

‘This one is nice,’ he commented, unaware of the turmoil in your head. He pulled it from the rack: a blue dress which looked vaguely familiar. 

You squeezed his hand. ‘It is. Thank-you, I’ll wear that.’

He lifted your joint hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of your palm before letting go. 

You called him back as he left, challenging yourself to put a test to your latest realisation. 

‘Can I get a kiss, before I go?’ You attempted to be coy, to act as if everything was fine. 

Robert smiled and crossed the floor in two steps. He kissed you, both hands holding your face, and you reeled in the blankness of it. What had once felt nice, comfortable and warm, felt like nothing. You pulled away and smiled, busying yourself quickly to stop him from seeing your eyes. You knew they’d betray you; they’d tell him that the kiss had solidified what you already knew: that you were never going to love him.

You were thankful to hear his footfalls grow quieter as he went downstairs, leaving you to get ready. The dress waited for you on the wardrobe door. 

It wasn’t until you had put it on, and looked at yourself in the mirror, that you recognised it. It was the dress. The dress you’d worn to the races that day, the one that Tommy had complimented. 

Perhaps you’ll wear it for me sometime. That’s what he’d said. 

You took a deep breath, stilling yourself. It seemed that sometime had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter was quite short, and posted quite a while ago, so here's a nice big one for you all


	8. Sunrise

‘I’m supposed to be meeting Mr Shelby?’ you asked with a smile, half afraid that the man before you would say there were no reservations under that name. But he didn’t - he just nodded and invited you forward with an open palm and a menu tucked under his elbow. 

Here goes, then. Dinner with a Shelby. 

You watched your feet as you walked, following the waiter by the back of his heels as you navigated the tables.

You’d visited the restaurant before, which helped your nerves, but you’d never been there with a man you’d liked. A man that gave you butterflies. Everyone before then had been a longtime friend of the family; someone who insisted on taking you out ‘just because’, who insisted on taking you to the place that showed off his wealth ‘just because’, and insisted on kissing you farewell, ‘just because.’ 

This time, it was Tommy. Whatever his intentions were, you knew they were better than that. No more selfish than someone wanting to indulge their curiosity, and after all, you were just as curious to see the nature of your relationship. The newness of it all had made the restaurant feel foreign; as if you’d stepped in there, amongst all the glitz and gold-plating, for the first time. 

If it was a business gesture, an extension of good intentions and new beginnings, you’d feel like a fool. But if it was something else… well, then you were entitled to the anxiety in your stomach. 

‘Madam,’ your guide announced, as he came to a stop by the most secluded table in the room: a softly-lit booth in the far corner, with dark red seats and a table set for two. Tommy knew how to dine a woman, then. He’d no doubt paid extra to get the table that he’d wanted. 

You looked up, skimming over your date to smile at the waiter. ‘Thank-you,’ you said. You nodded and he moved on, leaving you standing beside the table with both hands clasping your purse; as if holding it tightly would hide your nerves. 

‘You wore the dress,’ was the first thing Tommy said to you. 

He’d known it immediately. He’d remember the dress from all that time ago, and remembered it on sight, even when you hadn't. Feeling your cheeks grow hot, you chose to slide into the booth instead of facing him with a flustered reply. 

‘It looks just as pretty now as it did then,’ he continued.

You took a breath and met his gaze. You’d decided to come, so you wouldn’t shy away from him the moment you saw him. ‘I found it by chance,’ you lied. ‘I suppose I wanted to see if you’d recognise it.’

His eyes gave a smile that his lips did not. ‘How could I forget?’

You felt your heart warming. 

‘That day changed a lot of things,’ he said.

‘That it did,’ you replied. 

You held each others gaze for a moment, each as transfixed as the other. He drank you in as you’d expected, and, unable to stop yourself, you took him in with the same thirsty look. He’d changed since you’d last seen him. His hair was neat, his suit a fine pinstripe grey, his pocket-square ironed and set in place. He’d put effort in; whether that effort was to match the restaurant, or to impress you, you couldn’t guess. You could only wish that it was the latter. 

It was you who broke away first. You looked down with a breath and picked up the menu in front of you. Despite your own appearance, you felt underdressed. No amount of pretty dresses and fine jewellery would make you feel as if you suited him. He was breathtaking in the most indescribable way, and his clothing was only the start of it. The rest was something you were sure you’d never have. 

‘Now, I know the menu can be a bit-‘

You cut him off. ‘I’ve eaten here before.’ You offered him a smile. ‘Thank-you, but I can read the menu just fine.’

He leant back against his seat, his own menu falling slack again the table top as he did. ‘I thought I’d be taking you somewhere special. Somewhere you hadn’t been before.’

‘It's not an issue, it’s still a treat.’

‘Still special?’ He raised an eyebrow. 

‘You’ll have to ask me again later.’

Your answer had drawn a smile in his cheeks, carved it into his lips with an ease you’d never expected. 

You were flirting and he was smiling. Without planning to, you’d already discarded any hopes of having a business dinner, and accepted the evening as something more. If you didn’t chase this possibility, you might regret it. You might have to stay with Robert forever. 

The thought sent a spike of acidity to the back of your throat. You wouldn’t think of him, not while you dined with someone else, not when Tommy Shelby sat across from you. You coughed weakly and looked back at the menu to stop yourself from spiralling. 

‘Shall we get some wine?’ you asked. You weren’t even reading the wine list, your eyes were just running over the words to busy yourself. 

‘Already ordered.’ He reached to lift the bottle of red that you hadn’t noticed, and poured you a glass. You thanked him and took it, taking a large sip before you could say something else embarrassing, before you made him regret inviting you in the first place. 

‘So, y/n.’ He sat back again, toying with the stem of his glass. ‘How are you?’

‘How am I?’ 

He nodded.

‘I’m well.’ You set your wine down. ‘Sorry, are we making small talk?’

‘I thought I’d be polite.’

‘You’ve never tried before,’ you quipped.

He snorted a laugh and raised his hands as if to say, I can’t argue with that. 

‘I want to know how you’ve been,’ you said, leaning forward on your elbows. ‘You must’ve been busy.’

‘I’m not here to talk business.’

‘I wasn’t talking about business.’ You held his gaze, challenging him, waiting for him to read between the lines. 

You weren’t sure what had made you brave enough to enquire about his love life, but you were running with it. Perhaps it was indulgence; a selfish need to know that he had spent the past months hung up on you, when you had moved on. You needed that victory more than you cared to admit. 

‘The only thing I busy myself with, is money and horses.’ He leant forward as you had, mirroring you as he’d done at the auction. ‘Now, lets get some food, alright?’

You nodded and he was back against his seat, raising his hand to catch the eye of the waiter. 

 

————————————————————————————————

 

The evening had continued that way; flirting, and smiling, and keeping secrets one step behind the dance of it all. You’d learnt nothing of his business in London, heard no mention of other women. He’d gotten not closer to knowing about Robert, in fact he hadn’t even asked to see if you were single. Instead, the pair of you had spun the dinner into a candle-lit weaving of new details and light jokes.

You had similar tastes in music, and art. Similar views on the war - similar worries for the wars yet to come. 

Similar feelings toward all the things that weren’t similar: he loved the country, and you the city; although you each agreed that you saw beauty in both. 

He’d told you about his first horse, and you’d told him of the stray cat you’d once brought into the shop. He even laughed as you explained the ways you’d tried to keep the thing hidden, so much so - at the image of you stuffing it into your blouse - that he’d lifted his napkin to hide the wine that burst from his mouth. 

If there was anything you truly treasured from the evening, it was the discovery that Tommy had a laugh like sunrise. Much needed, and so warm that you forget how life felt before it, even though it was moments ago. 

As you watched him, grinning at your own successful tale, you promised yourself that you’d try to make him laugh more. It’d be harder without the wine, but it’d be worth it. He needed to feel the warmth as much as you did. 

After it was all over, and he’d paid the bill without even letting you see it, he’d offered to drive you home. 

‘I thought you didn’t want to be seen by my door?’ you’d said, clutching tight to his arm. 

He was walking with his hands in his pockets, his coat pushed back to allow him the space to do so. ‘I won’t be there long,’ he replied. ‘It’s late enough.’ He looked at you and smiled, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, and you smiled back. 

All formality had long dropped away; the unease between you had disappeared somewhere between the starter and main course. You were comfortable like you’d known each other for years and you walked beside him, arm in his, like he was yours to have. 

‘Okay then, Mr Shelby,’ you’d purred. ‘You can drive me home.’

 

————————————————————————————————

 

He’d done just that. The journey had gone just like the meal - at a pace that you wished so desperately you could slow down. You wanted it to last, or never end, whichever would allow you to avoid the realities of what waited for you at home. 

You’d been given a taste of something divine, and now you found yourself, standing on the doorstep with him, needing to say goodbye. 

‘It’s been lovely,’ you said. ‘Really lovely, thank-you Tommy.’

He may as well have shrugged. ‘Pleasure’s all mine.’

He was so close, opposite you, on the step designed for one. So close that you’d forgotten to say the farewell part of your goodbye. His eyes shone from beneath his cap, his chest inched forward with every breath he took. You were certain he was wanting more, that he expected it, yet you couldn’t give it. 

Your gaze dropped, your chin with it. You couldn’t ignore reality when you were stood right beside it. When it waited behind your door.

‘You’ve changed since the auction,’ he mused. 

You didn’t answer. When the quiet had become unusual, he lifted his thumb to your chin and guided your face upwards. 

‘What happened to the (y/n) I met?’ His voice was soft, quiet as if he was asking himself, and not you. 

‘I don’t.’ You swallowed your words. You did know. Robert had happened. Life had. You’d gotten a stable job in the business, you’d found someone to settle down with, someone to keep loneliness at bay. You’d settled and your spirit had settled with it. The person he’d met had long been asleep. 

You heard him swallow and then ask, ‘Can I?’ 

You looked at him, at last aware of the half-step he’d taken toward you. He was close enough that you felt as if you were under the short peak of his cap. You smelt the wine and tobacco on his lips, felt his breath on your skin. He stared at you, at your mouth; you didn’t bother to stop him from what came next. 

He kissed you gently. You held still as he leant down and closed the gap between you, smiling faintly as he pressed the kiss into you. It was warm, firm - deliberate and controlled in every way, but just as sweet. Like he’d wanted it for a long time, like he cherished it for its innocence. His lips touched to yours just long enough to send your heart into a frenzy, and then he was away again, filling the space between you with cool, evening air. 

You wanted to reach up to his face and place your palms on the fine stubble of his jaw - to keep him there so you could kiss him how you wanted, once and then once again. But instead you took a step back. 

The movement caused his hand to drop. Where he’d held your chin filled with the warmth of release, and you wished that you could keep the sensation of his grip for a moment longer. 

‘That was,’ you paused to clear your throat. In the space between, Tommy shook his head. 

‘Don’t say what it was, just let it be.’

‘Okay,’ you agreed. You liked that.

‘I’ll see you again,’ he said. ‘This week.’

The words sent a shot of joy through your veins, your cool body ignited with a hope you hadn’t predicted. It had been worth it. The waiting and time apart. This night had made it worth it, that kiss, the promise of more to come… 

Just as you were about to lean forward again, toward his lips his skin his warmth, the door swung open. It interrupted the two of you like a hot knife; you shifted as if you’d always been comfortably apart, instead of impossibly close. 

‘Robert,’ you breathed.

You stared at him to avoid Tommy. You could feel him shrink away from you. His back straightened, his hands returned to their pockets, his jaw set. 

‘I thought I heard conversation,’ Robert explained, looking more relaxed and indifferent than you’d expected. He was slouched against the door with his arm resting on the doorknob. You chewed the skin of your cheek, trying to decide if he was playing fool, or just oblivious. 

‘I was saying goodbye.’ You smiled and made sure to flick the gesture back to Tommy. ‘This is Mr. Shelby.’

Robert nodded, and extended his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Tommy didn’t even look at it. His eyes were set on Robert with an uncomfortable firmness, as if he were challenging him, willing him to do something about his rudeness. 

The hand fell back. Robert hadn’t taken the bait; he was too meek to care about whatever Tommy was suggesting. 

‘I’ll be on my way,’ Tommy said cooly, ‘now that I know she’s home safe.’

‘Quite safe,’ you answered. You wouldn’t let them talk about you as if you weren’t there, you’d suffered through enough of that. You stilled your breath and flashed him another smile, willing him to see the apology beneath your features. ‘Goodnight, Mr Shelby.’ 

You didn't wait for a response. You stepped into the house, edging around Robert, and let him close the door behind you. You were too afraid to look back, too scared to see the damage that had been done. The evening had seemed to straighten out everything between Tommy and yourself, and in the few moments with Robert, you were sure it had been knotted again. Twisted into something unfixable. 

As you took the stairs to your room, you found yourself praying that he would stick to his word: that you would see him again this week. Maybe then, you could explain it. If you were as lucky as you'd felt when he'd kissed you, there was a chance that you could fix things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its been a while, stuff happens init
> 
> i hope this makes up for my break!!!!


	9. Brunch

Three days had passed since that night. Three long fucking days. 

You’d spent the first day playing up to Robert - out of guilt, or fear that he’d see something different in you. You went in late to work, so that you could stay and eat breakfast with him. You’d made sure to compliment him, to ask him about his plans for the day, to sound like nothing had changed. You'd given your best performance when it came to leaving him. He'd lapped it up with shining eyes, like a boy who'd been given his favourite toy at Christmas. 

You’d insisted on going for a meal in the evening and afterwards, you'd spent the night in bed, talking and pretending. 

Although, if the day had told you anything, it was that only you were pretending; he felt what you could not, love. 

By the next day, the awareness of his love for you had become nothing but torment. 

You couldn’t look at him without thinking about it, without feeling it rot in your stomach. It was making you queasy from shame, or pity, stopping you from behaving normally. In the end, you’d had to avoid him completely. You’d hurried off without a kiss goodbye and returned home as late as you could manage. 

When you’d reunited before bed, you’d told him it was a busy day at work. He believed it of course, he had no reason to think you were lying, he just hadn’t remembered that you didn’t work on Fridays.

Saturday was some what of a middle ground. 

You’d gotten up and kissed Robert goodbye, arrived at work on time to help your father open the shop. Things had gone as they normally would, and you hadn’t thought about men, or love, all morning. 

The only abnormal addition to the day was the ten blinder boys that arrived at twelve, all wanting their measurements taken by you, and all at the same time. After some complaint, they'd accepted that wasn't possible. It took every part of you to humour them. All you could think of was sending them away, telling them to let Tommy know the deal was off, but business was business. This was just the start of it. 

You were surprised by the ages of them; some were close to fifty, some barely old enough to be considered a lad. With the range between them, you couldn’t begin to imagine what work they were doing, all of them seemed unfit for purpose in some way or the other. 

You didn’t bother to ask them, though. You’d just split them - five for you, five for your father, and got to work. 

As irritating as women-hungry men can be, they were polite enough. You’d even felt flattered by some of the compliments they’d rattled off, pattering you with meek attempts of flirtation as you’d attempted to do your job. 

When the last one came to stand before you, you’d expected to hear something from him too. 

‘Go on then,’ you said, pushing the stray hair from your face. ‘What’s your line?’

He shifted, fiddling with the hem of his ill-fitting jacket. ‘My line, Miss?’

You looked over him quickly, and noted that he seemed much less… eager than the others. 

Bloody typical. 

Waving the comment away, you set about taking his measurements, cursing yourself for being so presumptive. Of course the one time you’d prepared for it, had been the one lad with no interest in you at all. 

You'd gotten the numbers you needed in no time. The boy hadn't said a word, and without the forced small talk, the task had returned to its mundane, and relatively quick self. After you’d taken the last measurement, scribbling the number on the paper on your knee, you’d sat back on your heels to look up at him. 

‘Can I ask a question?’

He shrugged. 

You attempted to appear nonchalant as you asked, 'Have you seen Tommy today?’

The lad shook his head. ‘Only last night, Miss.’

You smiled. ‘Is he staying in London?’

‘I don’t know, Mi-‘

‘(Y/n) is fine,’ you corrected him.

‘Sorry,’ he explained, ‘Tommy said to treat you all fancy like. Said you were a lady.’

You felt heat sweep across your cheeks. 

‘Well, it seems you’re the only one to listen.’ You smiled up at him and nodded for him to leave. ‘Go on, I’ll put extra care into your suit.’

The lad grinned, thanked you as he readjusted his cap, and hurried from the room. 

You found yourself pulling your feet from under you and sitting cross-legged on the floor, unwilling to return to work after the short glimpse of sweetness you’d had. 

Tommy had told them to be nice to you. 

You knew that, whatever feelings he had toward you after Wednesday, were at least far from scorn. Or hate. He still liked you enough to wish well upon you, to stop boisterous lads from hassling you - no matter how effective he’d been. It was small, but it was all you needed to feel hopeful. 

The day passed in a blur after that. 

Before you knew it, it was Sunday and you were sitting in your living room again, dirtying your fingertips with the ink of a newspaper. 

You idly thought of Tommy, and his laugh, and the kiss he’d presented to you on a platter of tobacco-breath. If he was to see you again in the week, like he said, he had three days left to do so. 

Part of you wanted to ring him, part of you enjoyed the suspense of waiting for him to come to you. 

If it weren’t for Robert, you’d have forgotten entirely that it should be you chasing after him, not the other way around. You had led him on, let him kiss you, let him stand there before his competition - without having the decency to even tell him you were off the market. It was your responsibility to fix that. All of it.

‘(Y/n),’ Robert called, interrupting your train of thought. ‘Are you ready, darling?’

You sighed and set the paper down. You’d be ready for an hour now, you’d even preemptively put on your shoes out of boredom. ‘Of course.’

He trotted down the stairs and into the hall, arriving at the bottom in the exact moment that someone knocked against the door. 

Your eyebrows shot up as you flicked your gaze to check the clock; it was the same time as Tommy’s surprise visit last week.

‘I've got it,’ Robert announced as he pulled the door open. ‘Oh. Good morning, Mr Shelby.’ 

He really knew how to pick his entrances. 

Standing from your chair, you crossed the small distance and planted yourself beside Robert with a purposefully constructed smile on your face. You attempted to look confused, pleasantly welcoming but completely innocent to the situation. To seem surprised, instead of excited as you really were. In fact, you held onto your own hands, to prevent them from shaking. 

‘We’ve made a habit of meeting like this, Robert,’ Tommy said. He hadn’t looked at you directly, and instead pointed his lightly-amused face to your partner. 

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ you started, worried that if you didn’t interject, the conversation would lead somewhere unpleasant. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s just fine, (y/n).’ He lingered on Robert a moment longer, before directing his eyes to you. 

He was fresh faced, eyes alight in the morning sun. You had almost forgotten how the early hours treated him, how they softened his features and lightened his hair. How they painted him anew. 

‘I’m here to ask you to come and have brunch with me,’ he said. 

You almost choked on your own spit. The declaration was so bold, so unashamed and open in its intentions, that you felt as if you were dreaming. You half expected Robert to swing for him by default. But, when you looked up at him beside you, he was chuckling as if Tommy had told a joke. 

‘We were just leaving for brunch ourselves.’ He reached behind the open door to pull his coat form the rack, and folded it over his arm. ‘Perhaps you’ll accompany us?’

Your eyes widened. You looked to Tommy in the hope that he was as uncomfortable with the idea as you were. When you saw him smiling, a fake, polite smile, you had to grit your teeth to stop yourself from cursing aloud. 

‘If it’s alright with you,’ he replied, ‘I’d like that very much.’

You cleared your throat. ‘Robert, I’m sure Mr Shelby has more important things to be doing-’

‘This is important.’ Tommy dropped the fake smile for a stoic expression. ‘It’s always good to know the people you’re in business with, I’m sure Robert knows that.’ 

Robert laughed again. ‘And its always good to have another man to talk to. She’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes.’ He nudged you playfully, as if his comment was a well-meaning joke, and stepped out of the house, following Tommy onto the pavement. 

‘Come on, darling,’ he called, not bothering to look back. 

You let out the heavy breath you’d been holding and pulled the door shut behind you. 

God only knows how you’d ended up like this. 

Caught between a man who’d been with you for months, and didn’t know you at all, and a man who came and went as he pleased, that seemed to know you better than anyone...

Now you had to tackle both, at the same time, over fucking brunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its short and not much happens, im sorry !!!  
>  i will update again ASAP to make up for it  
> xxx


	10. Dangerous line

What was usually a semi-regular, pleasant Sunday breakfast, with no more extravagance than going for tea at your mothers, had become something torturous; a spectacle of endurance, of which, you were an unfortunate competitor. 

Tommy had let Robert choose the place, and you got the feeling that he knew the red-haired man was trying to impress him - he was humouring it as a father would his child. He nodded when Robert suggested the cafe, smiled when he picked the table in the centre of the room… it was as amusing as it was terrifying. Tommy seemed to have an agenda, where Robert didn’t, and you couldn’t predict how the next half an hour would go if you tried. 

When you sat down, Tommy sat to your left, and Robert opposite him. You were thankful that the table was circular; the last thing you wanted to do was pick which man you had to sit next to.

After ten minutes or so, you’d grown bored of small talk. You stirred another sugar into your coffee for something to do as the conversation took another dull route. The two men were fighting for your attention, though neither knew of the others desperation, and neither were winning. All you could think about was how much longer you had to put up with it.

With a sigh, you dropped the spoon onto its saucer, not bothering to smile as Robert raised an eyebrow at you. You crossed one leg over the other, and then again in reverse. Your hands fiddled with themselves atop the table. You couldn't keep still, fidgeting until Robert frowned.

'Are you alright, darling?' he asked. 

You nodded, looking to him and then Tommy with the same fake smile. 'Just hungry.’

Robert laughed lightly and looked across at Tommy. 'Do your horses get as antsy when they haven't been fed?' 

You clenched your teeth. Robert's joke was light enough, and in private you'd have laughed and told him to fuck off... but to make the joke to Tommy? It was a poor show of loyalty, and it soured in your gut. 

'Never seen a horse as lovely as (y/n),' Tommy answered. He looked at you lazily - no, comfortably, like he'd spent so long admiring your face that now he found a home in it. 

'Well, yes,' Robert stuttered, 'it was just a bit of-'

'Thank-you, Mr Shelby, but I don't much appreciate being compared to a horse.' You cleared your throat. 'I'm sure Robert would say the same, if I compared his use of cutlery to the mannerisms of an ape.’

You presented it as if it were a joke, but the look on Roberts face showed that he had received the intended message well enough. 

Tommy dipped his head, a faint smirk on his lips, and turned his attention to the cup in front of him. 

The short break gave you chance to look at Robert properly. He was attempting to mouth something to you, but you just shrugged. Whatever he was saying, you didn't have time for, he could apologise to you later and you'd consider apologising back. 

'So,' Tommy spoke, startling Robert more than yourself, 'do you work with (y/n)'s father?'

He shook his head. 'Only in the way that you do, he made suits for me a while ago.'

'We went to the races together,' you added, telling Tommy all he needed to know about the true connection between you. ‘That’s how we met.’

‘Ah.’ Tommy nodded and took a drink of his tea. 

‘He has his suits made elsewhere now.’ 

‘Well,’ Robert began, attempting to defend himself, ‘I couldn’t rightly ask the woman I love to clothe me, could I?’

Your throat tightened. Robert had never told you he loved you. But there, in front of Tommy, it had slipped out of him like a premeditated dart. You looked to your lap, hoping your face hadn’t betrayed you with a blush. 

Tommy barely missed a beat. ‘You’d rather have another woman do it?’ he asked, oblivious to the weight of Robert’s comment. Before he could reply, he cleared his throat and continued, ‘Different men, different ways, Robert.’ 

You felt a hand on yours and looked up to find it was Tommy’s. 

‘If my wife made suits like (y/n), I’d wear nothing else.’

Tommy locked eyes with you and you had to stop yourself from jerking away from his touch. 

He was behaving like you were the only two in the room - every move Robert made, he matched twofold. Flirted with you as he did over dinner. 

To your surprise Robert laughed. ‘We aren’t married, Mr Shelby.’ He either thought nothing of Tommy’s touch, or he hadn’t seen it yet. The anxiety of not knowing which twisted in your stomach like a blade. ‘It’s too soon for that, we’re still getting to know each other,’ he continued. 

It dawned on you then that Tommy had never offered Robert his first name. You had refrained from using it, to keep-up the facade of formality, and Tommy had withheld from giving it for.. what? Power? Fun?

You pulled your hand from under Tommy’s and occupied it with your coffee.

‘My mistake,’ Tommy mused, his gaze lingering on yours a moment longer, before flicking to Robert. ‘I wouldn’t wait.’

‘Sorry?’

The room seemed to shrink, suffocating you. Tommy was walking a dangerous line. 

‘(Y/n) is a treasure you should be wary of losing.’

Robert half-smiled, his brows scrunched. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Just an observation.’ Tommy shrugged. ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to see what you have.’

‘Tommy!’ you spat, stopping the conversation dead. 

‘Tommy?’ Robert was looking at you now, confusion printed in his features. 

‘I think we should order something to eat,’ you said, feeling your skin burn under Robert’s glare. 

‘How well do you know Tommy?’ Robert pushed. He sneered his name as if it were poison on his tongue.

‘She makes my suits, Robert, nothing more.’

You ignored Tommy. ‘It’s not uncommon to know someone’s name, Rob.’ Your voice had gone sharp, along with the nickname you rarely gave him. ‘I know him no better than I know my other clients.’ The lie came easily with your spite. 

You watched Robert’s jaw clench and bit down on your own teeth in response. He didn’t believe you, that was clear, but he had no evidence to discredit you. What you said was absolutely right and he knew that. 

It was Tommy that saved the brunch from slipping into sharp-tongued chaos. 

Seemingly aware of the buttons he had pushed, and satisfied with it, he eased into his seat and struck up conversation about Robert’s work. Although somewhat reluctant, Robert took the bait and the ordeal eventually simmered into polite small talk once again. 

Even with the smiles and faked laughter, you could’t shake the itch of your almost confrontation with Robert. 

If Tommy hadn’t been there, you’d have challenged him further. You’d have picked at the frustrations beneath your skin and laid it out for the whole damn cafe to see. 

After the longest twenty minutes of your life, you were spared. Whichever gods were watching over you had handed you a free pass, in the form of Robert, who couldn’t keep to a promise if his life depended on it. 

Mid-bite, toast crumbs on his chin, he gestured to you and asked, 'Darling, what’s the time?’

You pulled the watch from your pocket. ‘Just gone twelve.’

‘Damn.’ He burst from his seat, wiping his mouth with the serviette before tossing it down. ‘I told Stuart I’d help him with something at the office.’ 

Relief was a long-awaited sensation. ‘That’s a shame,’ you lied, watching as he threaded his arms into his coat. ‘I’ll have Tommy walk me home.’

‘I’m sorry darling,’ he said, before planting a kiss on your forehead. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

You shook your head. ‘It’s fine, Robert.’

He sighed and turned to nod to Tommy, ‘Mr. Shelby.’

Tommy nodded back, leaning with his elbow on the table, barely lifting his eyes from you to him.

All comradery had long gone, then. Tommy and Robert were as cold to each other as you’d always wanted them to be. Having seen them faking friendship, and contrived banter, this was a welcome transition. 

As you watched Robert leave, you couldn’t help but relax into your seat. Your previously taut posture loosened, your forced smile dropped into a neutral line, and you felt as if you could breathe again. You’d survived it. 

‘You want me to walk you home?’ Tommy asked. 

For a moment, you’d forgotten he was there. You were too relieved from the stress to think about it. ‘Honestly, Tommy, I don’t care what you do.’

‘Good.’ He set his empty cup on the table and began to gather himself to leave. ‘Then I’d like to take you somewhere.’

Your brows shot up. 'What? Now?’ 

He looked at you as if you’d asked something unreasonable. ‘Unless you’d like to sit and think about brunch any longer?’ 

You couldn’t help but laugh; at the absurdity of it, at the faint smile beneath his features, at the glee of not going home - to the guilt of not loving Robert. 

‘Okay.’ You gestured limply in the air. ‘Why not?’

Tommy smiled. 

It was a sunshine smile, one that lifted you from the oppressive cafe and into the free, worry-less air of not giving a fuck. 

After that brunch, you felt as if you could do anything. Tommy could flirt with you in front of a man that loved you, and get away with it; you could call Robert names, and get away with it; it seemed that reason just didn’t apply to the world you were in anymore. 

You knew that, without a doubt, whatever Tommy had planned for you would be fine. Better than fine. He’d shown you that every scenario, no matter how ridiculous, could be twisted in your favour. That specific type of triumph was drug-like, something that you’d begin to crave, something that you had to have. 

If that meant following Tommy half-way around the world, then so be it.


	11. A New Friend

Camden. Of all the places Tommy Shelby could take you, he’d chosen Camden fucking Town. 

He’d paid for brunch, walked you to his car, and set off without giving you a hint. You hadn’t thought to ask, you were intoxicated by the mystery of it, by the imagined blindfold over your eyes. Sitting beside him was like returning home after a long trip, you didn’t mind the journey so much because the company was so long awaited. You’d been happy to prick the silence with small talk; he’d been happy to listen. When you realised where you were, you couldn’t help but laugh. 

A Sunday afternoon in Camden. 

‘What are we doing here?’ you asked him, once he’d brought the car to a stop. He’d parked it by a bakery, or rather by the back of one, and the building was as uninteresting as it was bland. Brown brick and paint-starved doors.

‘Meeting a friend of mine,’ he replied.

You pulled your eyes from the building and back to him. ’A friend? I didn’t realise you had any.’

He glanced at you across the seat, his eyebrow arched in a challenge.

‘I’m just playing, Tommy.’ You weren’t; in the short time you'd known him, you'd never once gotten the impression he had friends. He seemed to know family and family only. Excluding yourself, of course. ‘Should I be excited to meet this friend, then?’

He snorted, one hand slipping from the wheel to rest on his thigh. ‘Excited to meet Alfie Solomons?’ he mused. ‘That'll be the fucking day.’

Alfie Solomons. You ran the name over in your mind. You didn’t know him, never heard of him and you’d certainly never made suits for him.

‘Trying to work out if you’ve done business with him?’ Tommy asked.

You scoffed, ‘Am I that easy to read?’

‘I hear thoughts, (Y/n), I’ve been hearing yours since the day we met.’ He was almost smiling, teasing the notion behind his lips as he looked at you. For a second you believed him. 

You decided to play his game, leaning toward him as you spoke, 'Then why did it take you so long to come back to me?’ 

His gaze fell to your lips, then rose again. The smile dispersed and his face swept with cool indifference. ‘I didn’t like what I heard.’ 

You recoiled.

He cleared his throat and grabbed his cigarettes from between you. 'Come on,’ he said, tucking them into his pocket before climbing from the car. You had no option but to follow after him. You didn’t even have time to sulk at his quip. 

He knocked twice on the broad doors and lit a cigarette while he waited for an answer. He didn’t offer you one, which you were glad of, so instead you bided your time by looking to the buildings around you. They were all equally as disinteresting as the bakery - you couldn’t help but think it was a design feature rather than a coincidence, like the neighbourhood was made with the intention of being unmemorable.

When the door finally opened, you were greeted by a curly-haired man, who could have been around your age. ‘Mr Shelby.’ He nodded, acknowledging Tommy before his eyes fell anxiously onto you. ‘Just you Mr Shelby, no-one else,’ he said. 

‘It’s alright, Ollie,’ Tommy sighed, looking at the lit cigarette, ‘Alfies knows she’s coming.’

‘Oh.’ It seemed to catch him off-guard, but he took Tommy’s word for it. ‘This way.’

You waited, looking to Tommy for some sort of explanation, but he gave you none. He simply stood, smoking, and gestured for you to lead the way. 

Friend seemed liked a stretch all ready. Friends don’t send staff to meet other friends, in the back alley of bakeries. Friends don’t insist on being seen strictly alone. Or on making exceptions as long as they had known beforehand. No, whatever Alfie Solomons was to Tommy, it was not a friend. 

You followed Ollie with Tommy close behind, keeping your hands tucked into the pockets of your coat - the rooms you walked through were large, but lined high with stock, and you found yourself worrying about accidentally touching them. Knowing your luck, you’d knock one barrel and send the whole rack rolling. 

‘What kind of meeting is this?’ You kept your voice to a whisper, slowing your pace so that you and Tommy were parallel, ‘You know, I was expecting the pub for a drink, or something. Not this.’

‘What’s wrong with this?’ He looked at you through his lashes, directing smoke through the corner of his lips. ‘It’s the most convenient place for both parties.’

‘You act like you’re conducting a business meeting.’ The statement seemed pointless once you’d said it; that was exactly what he was doing, you could see it in the way he held himself. ‘Christ, do you never have a day off?’

‘I can’t afford days off, (Y/n).’ He came to a stop, copying Ollie who had paused in front of another door. ‘I didn’t get where I am today by taking days off.’

Ollie knocked, stilling your reply before it had blossomed. 

In moments, the door was open, revealing a broad man with thick facial hair and a cane. He couldn’t have been much older than Tommy, but he held himself in a way that suggested he was the elder of the two. 

‘Tommy,’ he greeted him with a smile, his arms lifting wide as if to hug him. ‘You kept me waiting, mate, nearly fucking went home without seeing ya.’

‘We came when we could.’ Tommy cleared his throat, not matching the boom of Alfie’s words, ‘We got held up.’

‘Charming dogs, was it? Or whatever the fuck you lot get up to.’ He scrubbed at his beard, humming to himself as if Tommy had answered, then turned his attention to you. ‘This her then, is it?’

Tommy pressed a hand to the small of your back, inching you forward. ‘(Y/n), Alfie. Alfie, (Y/n),’ he introduced you, slowly.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ you said with a smile, taking his hand. He squinted slightly, as if scrutinising you, but obliged. The handshake was firm - and his roughened palms gripped yours just long enough to make it feel intimate. When it was done, he rocked back on his heels to look you over. 

‘Well. That’s lovely, ain’t it mate?’ he said to Tommy. ‘Polite, very polite.’

Tommy half-nodded; his eyes were steady on you, with the usual coolness you’d grown to expect.

‘Yeah, lovely,’ Alfie continued. ‘So, what? She here to teach you fucking eloquence, Tommy?’ He looked back at you. ‘Cause listen, yeah, he needs all the fucking help he can get.’

The suggestion bewildered you. Alfie spoke to him in a way unlike anyone else and, stranger still, Tommy seemed completely unfazed by it. Amused even. 

‘I’m sure I couldn’t teach him anything he doesn’t already know,’ you said. 

Alfie stared at you in return, in such a way to make you think you’d said something wrong, but then he laughed, turned from you, and said, ‘You must be treating her well, to get her singing your praises like that. Fucking chirping ‘em she is.’ 

He shrugged, his face blurring with the smoke that poured from his lips. ‘What can I say, Alfie.’

‘Yeah, not much mate.’ He went back through the doorway he’d appeared from, clearly having lost interest in you and the novelty of your relationship with Tommy. ‘Come on then. It’s a fucking Sunday, mate. Shouldn't even fuckin’ be here, should you?’ he grumbled, stringing words over his shoulder as he walked into the office. 

Tommy took a final drag before flicking the cigarette to the ground. ‘Wait here,’ he told you.

‘What?’

‘Just stay here. I won’t be long.’ He gave you no time to reply as he turned and disappeared into the door Alfie had taken. 

Ollie shuffled into the room with them and shut the door behind, leaving you completely alone. 

Fucking great. He’d driven you all the way there, to meet the strangest man in London, only to abandon you for a meeting with him. If it weren’t for your lacking sense of direction, you’d have taken yourself home; waiting for men wasn’t a favourite past-time of yours.

With a sigh, you found barrel big enough to sit on, and waited. 

————————————————

It was only twenty minutes or so until he reappeared. Tommy came from the office, shutting the door after him, and re-set the cap on his head. ‘Right, let’s get you home, ay?’ he said, walking past you. 

You followed, falling in step just behind him. You’d taken your coat off while you were waiting and now you scrambled with the sleeves, attempting to rewrap yourself before you reached the doors. 

‘Is that it?’ you asked.

‘That’s it.’ He nodded.

‘Not much of a meeting.’ 

He may as well have shrugged.

There was no Ollie to see the two of you out, but Tommy knew the way well enough. He took you along the empty warehouse, through the dimly-lit stockrooms, and out the back entrance in silence, only stoping when he’d reached the car. He opened the door for you, and held out a hand.

You looked at his palm. ‘What if I don’t want to go home yet?’

Watching you closely, he took a moment to drink you in - eyes roaming your face like you were new; like he’d found you again for the first time. When he responded, his voice was teetering on amusement, as if your question had been endearing. ‘Well, that would depend on where you waned to go.’

‘Hyde Park.’ You hadn’t planned an answer, but one came easy enough. ‘I’d like to go to Hyde Park.’

He hummed.

‘Please?’ 

You were already smiling, you had already won. His mouth had softened at the edges, pulling into an easy smile; it was subtle, but it was there. 

‘Alright,’ he said, nodding to the car. ‘Hyde Park it is.’

You wanted to kiss him, but instead, you took his hand, putting your weight onto it as you stepped up. 

If there was anything you were sure of, it was that there would be plenty of times to kiss him. That one could wait.

————————————————

Hyde Park wasn’t the quiet paradise you had hoped for. 

It was the first day in a long time that hadn’t been too cold, or too wet, to scare people from outdoor activities; the park was flooded with families, couples and their children, wrapped warm but playing as if it were summer, elderly on benches watching the world go by… the place was alive with the idleness of Sunday. People had come out just for something to do. 

After walking for a while, the pair of you had stopped by the Serpentine lake. You stood side by side, talking until the conversation stilled into a comfortable silence. It really was beautiful. Not just the view but the moment. Tommy stood with his hands in his pockets, and although you weren’t touching, you were glad to have him beside you. Just him being there was comforting, and exciting. The butterflies hadn’t settled yet. 

At your feet, the ducks had gathered, sure that your pause by the edge meant you were there to treat them. They squabbled and quacked, splashing water and feathers in their eagerness.

‘I wish we had something to give them,’ you thought aloud. ‘I’ve missed feeding the ducks.’

He snorted softly, looking out as you did but at the people on the opposite bank, rather than the birds before you. 

‘You don’t think it’s nice?’ 

‘A lot of things are nice, (Y/n). They’re just birds.’ 

You continued, moving back for a passing child that ran along the waterline, spilling leaves from her pocket. ‘Mother used to take me to the park by the shop, with the crusts from my lunch.’ You smiled. ‘I always thought the King would be proud of me for sharing my food with his swans.’

‘The King’s swans…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Better fed than we were.’

You nodded, adding, ‘And the swans were never there anyway. It was the ducks that ate.’ 

You lifted your eyes to find the horizon he looked at. The people on the other side were feeding their own gaggle of birds, throwing chunks into the water and sending them into a frenzy. The swans from the centre, who had backed from your crowd, were slowing making their way toward the food - they'd watched you long enough to know you had nothing.

‘I took my crusts to the horses,’ he said after a moment. ‘Didn’t know horses shouldn’t have ‘em, til it was my job to clean up the mess.’

You laughed and turned to him with a grin.

He was already looking at you, his cheeks pressed with dimples. ‘What?’ 

‘Nothing,’ you lied. You couldn’t tell him that the image seemed impossible, couldn’t tell him that the thought of it being real sent a pulse of admiration through your system. The Tommy who snuck his scraps out for the horses was a Tommy that you wanted to see; one you wanted to know more about. 

He lifted his hand to push some hair from your face, pocketing it again once it was safely behind your ear. ‘You don’t smile enough,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ you raised your eyebrows, ‘so, the kettle really does call the pot black.’

Tommy rolled his eyes and looked back across the lake.

If he didn’t do it to you so often, you'd be embarrassed by how long you spent looking at him. His profile was just as captivating as his front. You noted his eyelashes, jealously at that, the scoop of his chin, the jut of his Adam’s apple. It was only when he spoke again that you stopped highlighting all the features that caught your eye.

‘Are you in love with Robert?’ he asked, his voice stronger than it had been. Controlled as he interrogated you. 

You swallowed the bile that had risen in your throat. ‘No,’ you admitted. ‘I don’t think I am.’

‘Do you wish you were?’

‘No.’

He nodded, dipping into his jacket for a cigarette. ‘Then, why are you with him, (Y/n)?’ 

The lighter sparked and the cigarette smoked. You still hadn’t found a suitable answer. 

‘You need to tell him.’ He exhaled, laying his cool gaze on you. ‘You tell him, and then we can…’ He gestured vaguely between you. ‘Alright?’

You wanted to scoff, to mock him, but your heart had dropped and all your gusto with it. He was right. You'd know for days that you had to tell Robert things weren’t mutual, and even the promise of something between you and Tommy couldn’t distract you from the dread it brought. You sighed, but nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I won’t share you, (Y/n).’ He took your cheek in his palm, directing your eyes back to his with the cigarette smoking by your ear. ‘But, don’t do it for me, ay? Do it cause it’s right, for the both of you.’

You leant into his hold with a sigh. ‘I know. I’ll tell him tonight.’

It was almost laughable, you were taking moral advice from a gangster. Even more laughable was that you were falling head over fucking heels for him. 

His thumb ran across your lip, and then he was away again - smoking and looking across the lake. 

You didn’t protest when he suggested taking you home, the sickness from what was coming had long settled in your system. It was time; best to get it over with. 

————————————————

Robert wasn’t home. 

You waited for him for hours, sitting in the living room as the clock did loops around you. It was tormenting. When Tommy had said goodbye, you’d been ready, eager almost. You’d thought through how you’d say it, envisaged how he’d take it. And then you'd been greeted with empty halls and unlit rooms. 

Meeting Stuart couldn’t have taken longer than an hour. You and Tommy had been gone all afternoon, and now the sun had sank completely. It was nearing midnight and you still hadn’t heard from Robert. 

Standing from your seat, you went to the hall and put on a coat. You grabbed your keys, and a scarf to keep the chill off, before leaving the house.

It wasn’t that you weren’t thinking, rather that you were thinking too much. You’d rationalised it to yourself, come to some strange conclusion that you might bump into him somewhere, or walk until you remembered where he would be. Somehow that had made sense to you. 

You walked in the dark with your arms wrapped around yourself. 

Robert never stayed out late without telling you. His absence was worrying, and all thoughts of a break-up had been well and truly muted. You had to know that he was safe. 

It didn’t once cross your mind that you weren’t.

As you turned another corner, you realised you’d left your neighbourhood, and now walked roads you didn’t know. The people on them seemed to sense it. If they weren’t jeering at you, or staring, they were avoiding you like fleas from a fire. You hugged your arms tighter, keeping your head down as you walked. 

Robert could’ve been in a pub; you set that as your target - the first pub you came across you’d duck into, if he wasn’t there at least there’d be a phone.

You didn’t realise a car was following you until you tried to cross the road. 

Not looking, you’d stepped from the pavement, too focused on Robert’s disappearance to see the mistake. The car had stopped abruptly, leaving you blinded by its headlights. 

If the car hadn’t been crawling it would’ve struck you down. 

You stumbled back from the road, heart shuddering in your chest. The lights had cloaked your vision, blurring them with floating orbs, stopping you from seeing the driver of the car. 

‘God, I’m sorry,’ you babbled, once the shock had reanimated into guilt. You stepped towards the stationary car to apologise further. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve looked before I…’ 

The driver was Ollie, the passenger, Alfie. You were so surprised to see them that you thought perhaps you had been hit, and this was just an opium-induced nightmare.

‘Yeah, you should of, yeah,’ Alfie said, having wound his window down. ‘You're not in the fucking forest, gypsy girl. Need to watch where you're going. Ollie here, he nearly fucking had ya. Damn near had a heart attack.’

You sighed and rubbed at your face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not feeling myself.’

‘Well, I can see that.’ You couldn’t tell if he looked annoyed or sympathetic. ‘Now stop apologising, yeah, and get in the car.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ you stepped back from the window. ‘I can walk.’

'Now see here treacle, I'm a right busy man, yeah. But I see you here, on your own, wandering the dangerous streets, completely oblivious to whats going on around you. I can't just leave ya here. God himself knows what trouble you'd get ya self in. But, I ain't got time to be following you around on your ramblings. So.' He leant forward. 'How about you just get in the fucking car, yeah?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ELLO okay this was long overdue. but i hope i've made it up to you, this chapter was a hefty one. let me know what you think, i'm starting to give this work a bit more direction. 
> 
> mj xxx


	12. Blackbird

You sat in the backseat, staring at the back of Alfie’s head. There wasn’t much to look at, just his hat, the curl of his hair, and a scattering of psoriasis. In an ideal world, he'd feel the weight of your gaze despite the lot of it - but your world was far from ideal. He faced forward, humming as if nothing at all had happened. 

You considered pointing your glare to Ollie also but, to you, he seemed no less of a captor than you were. Driving the streets and picking up random women didn’t seem like a priority of his. 

‘What are you doing here, Alfie?’ 

You fought the urge to lean forward, to push the question over his shoulders and into his ears. Demanding you get in, calling you names, following you in the first place. None of it sat well with you. 

‘Not even a fucking thank-you, Ollie,’ he said to his driver, before lifting his chin to speak to you, ‘Where are those lovely manners you had before, hmm?’

‘What am I thanking you for?’

His eyes flicked to the mirror beside his window - you met them there, as harshly as you could, but he just looked back blankly; though his blank was nothing like Tommy’s. It was sharp, intense, penetrative. Firm enough to make you uncomfortable.

‘Me and Ollie, yeah, we’re just on an evening drive. A wind down from our very long, very hard day at the bakery, right. Then you, you walk into the road, wandering like some sort of melancholic spirit, yeah, and we saw it in everyones best interest to offer you a safe ride home again. That’s worthy of a thank-you, don’t you think, Ollie?’

Ollie did nothing, though his shoulders half-lifted as if he wanted to shrug, but thought better of it. 

‘That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in this part of London.’ You wouldn’t thank him; he hadn’t earnt it yet. ‘And like I said, I can walk.’

‘Listen,’ his voice had risen, words shrinking you back into your seat, ‘I don’t fancy explaining to Tommy-fucking-Shelby, that his missus was shot dead in a piss-filled alley, alright. So, you’ll stay there, and you’ll be fucking thankful of it, yeah?’ 

You set your jaw, arms folding across your chest. Whatever had gone on earlier had clearly set a precedent for Alfie’s treatment of you. He was tired of you before you’d even done anything, biting at you before you could win him over. 

‘Thank-you,’ you forced the word through gritted teeth. Whatever it took to get you moving again.

‘That’s it, treacle. Didn’t cost you a thing, did it?’

No. Just your pride. 

Rolling your eyes, you turned your face to the window and waited for the car to pull away from the curb. Outside all of this, there was still the worry of Robert. He could’ve been home by now, waiting, thinking. Assuming. That was the terrifying one, the assumptions he’d make if he got home and you weren’t there. 

God.

You should have left a note. Just a small one, something to let him know you were looking for him. Proof that you still cared. 

Eyes closing, you wished your heart to slow itself. It was beginning to hammer against your chest, chasing after the train of anxiety you’d constructed. It’d be fine. Robert had no reason to think anything of your absence, he didn’t know what had changed, what you had wanted to talk to him about. He didn’t even know you’d been home and left again. 

Wherever he was, he was probably having more fun that he would’ve been if he was with you. Ignorance was the only buffer between his perfect relationship and disaster. 

‘Now, there’s a very pressing question here - Ollie, go on, can’t sit here forever - a very pressing question, yeah, that you’ve been avoiding,’ Alfie continued, speaking over your sulking quiet. ‘Which is, what're you doing over this part of town?’

He hadn’t made an effort to look back at you, or meet your eyes in the mirror, yet you felt his judgement etched into your skin. There was no reason you could give him that he’d believe. He had a sense for lies, for bullshit. He’d clock it before you’d even begun. 

‘I was looking for someone. My...’ you searched for a label, before giving up entirely, ‘Robert.’

‘Your Robert,’ he echoed. ‘Yeah, and who’s that?’

You shook your head. He didn’t see the motion. 

‘Your Robert, now, he's a bit like your Tommy, ay?’ 

‘No,’ you replied. ‘Different.’ You couldn’t give him anymore than that; the difference was that you wanted Tommy, you were stuck with Robert. You endured where you wanted to excel.

Alfie let out a breath, whether it counted as a laugh, you weren’t sure. ‘Right, well. Poor Robert, innit.’

Stomach knotting, you shifted the conversation back in your favour. No more talk of Robert, or Tommy. Not with the man you didn’t know and his curly-haired sidekick. An accusation seemed the easiest way to shift the reins of the conversation, ‘Were you following me, Alfie?’

‘Nah, course not, love,' he answered quickly, shaking his head once. 'Tommy asked me to keep an eye on you, so I was just checking out the area. Wanted to see what type of shit-hole you were living in - and its a very nice shit-hole, innit. Tommy never said you had money.’

Your brows scrunched. ‘Sorry, what? Keep an eye on me?’ 

‘Yeah, yeah. See, he brought you to me so I could get a proper look at ya, right. So that, if a body turned up, I could pick you out the pile, yeah? He’s a very considerate man, Mr. Shelby.’

Considerate was the last word on your mind. 

'Dead?' Repeating it didn't give it anymore sense. 

You didn’t know whether to be flattered that he was worried about you, or terrified that you being dead was a real enough possibility. There’d been no meeting, no exchange of deals or business talk. Just, here she is, Alfie. Remember her face, Alfie. Familiarise yourself with the area, Alfie. 

‘Christ,’ you muttered, eyes on the street-lamps. It was all there was to stop the night from becoming too much: peppered amber, guiding the car along the road.

‘Lot to take in, isn’t it, love? You’re alright. Take your time. Me and Ollie will just sit here like fucking babysitters.’

‘Sorry, I just I had no idea.’ No idea and nothing to say. 

How were you supposed to respond? Tommy thought the two of you were so dangerous together, that he’d already prepared for the worst. He’d imagined your death and he’d covered it. All while you were stood outside, waiting for him to take you to the fucking park. 

‘No idea,’ Alfie said, tone indecipherable, face hidden from your position. ‘Yeah, that’s right, no idea. Too mesmerised by his cock to stay away from the trouble.’ 

‘Fucking hell,’ the words slipped from your mouth before you could think better of it. ‘I don’t know why you think you can talk to me like that.’

He didn’t reply; you didn’t give him chance to.

‘Look, Alfie, you don’t have to watch out for me.’ You could see it was a bother to him, a strain on his time and patience. ‘I’ll tell Tommy he doesn’t need to, that I don’t need you. Honestly, this is all too much. I just wanted to fucking-‘

He finally turned to look at you over his shoulder. ‘You wont tell Tommy anything,’ he barked. ‘He specifically asked me, yeah, that I wouldn’t reveal myself and his plans to you. So, I don’t tell him you’re wandering the road like some common, fucking street urchin, and you don’t tell him I gave away his big secret.’

Silence. Choking and infinite despite the shrinking space between you. He kept his eyes still on yours, so you looked at the bridge of his nose, wishing for the tension to break. 

‘How’s that sound?’ he asked.

You nodded for lack of anything else to do.

He cleared his throat. ‘I like Tommy, yeah,’ he continued, his voice relaxing slightly. ‘Very nice, very small man. He’s got a lot of things I want and I have a lot of things he needs. And if one of those things is keeping my very respectable eye on you, then thats it, innit. That’s what happens.’

Were you supposed to thank him? Tell him you felt safer knowing it? Because you didn’t. You wanted to get out of the car and run. The more you learnt about this world, about Tommy’s world, the less of it you wanted. 

‘My house is just-‘

‘Treacle, you’re not going home.’ He lifted a hand, rubbing at his wired-beard. ‘I can’t keep an eye on you at home now, can I?’ 

‘I’m not going to leave the house again,’ you bargained. 

The longer you spent there, the more desperate you became to escape. You’d take a pub full of drunks. The racetrack and all it’s money-filled bachelors. Anything. Anything over the car and it’s owner, the pattern of conversation and orders. Threats and warnings. 

‘I don’t believe that, d’you, Ollie?’

‘No, Alfie,’ Ollie replied.

‘Nah, don’t believe that at all. Where does your mother live?’

Your eyebrows shot to your hair line. ‘My mother?’

‘Yeah, your fucking lovely, I’m sure, mother,’ Alfie insisted. 

Without thinking, you’d told him, aware of how you teetered on his patience. Your parents house was the last place you’d expected to end up, tonight of all nights, but you’d take it. In fact, it sounded like a haven in comparison. 

‘Right,’ he nodded, ‘you heard her, Ollie.’

The car set in motion and you leant back in the seat, not speaking again until it pulled to a stop by the curb outside your family home. He’d taken you to you mothers as he’d said. Of all things Alfie was, a man that kept to his word seemed to be one of them. 

The house had been the same your whole life. Terraced, tall and thin. Painted stone-grey. It had never looked as welcoming as it did now, but when you thought about who was inside your feet cemented themselves in place. 

‘I don’t need to be here, Alfie,’ you said, voice tight.

He was looking in his mirror again, his tone wavering between sympathetic and condescending. ’Yeah you do, love. You wanna act like a kid, running round in the night, then I’ll treat you like one, yeah? I’m sure mum’ll be glad to have ya.’

Your face grew hot. He had no idea the shit he was throwing you in. With a huff, you got out of the car, slamming it shut behind you.

‘Thank-you for the ride,’ you said, without bothering to sound thankful.

‘Not a problem,’ he replied, without bothering to sound offended. ‘Now, go on. We’re not leaving til the doors shut behind you, yeah, so hurry along now.’

You rolled your eyes and took the steps to your parents door. You didn’t know the exact time, but it was late enough that they’d be in bed - asleep and furious about being woken, no doubt. 

It took them three minutes to wake up once you rang the bell. You didn’t bother looking behind you, you could still hear Alfie’s car rumbling in wait.

When the door swung open, your father look terrified, confused, and then - finally - welcoming. Three emotions in the same amount of time. ‘What’s wrong?’ was the first thing out of his mouth. 

‘Nothing, I’m okay. Can I come in?’ 

You prayed he didn’t look behind you - and to your relief, he didn’t. He just nodded and stepped aside; he knew when to mind his own. 

When you got to the front room, your mother was kneeling on the arm chair, peering through the curtains and into the road behind. You didn’t expect anything less, and in your current state, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The night had drained you of everything you had. There were no emotions left that you hadn’t already felt. 

‘Has he gone?’ you asked her.

‘Just leaving,’ she replied.

Thankful, you collapsed into the sofa, letting your head drop back onto the cushion. You stared at the ceiling as they began their inquisition. 

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘No.’

‘Why aren’t you at home?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Is that Alfie Solomons?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Harry, we can’t have that.’ She turned to you. ‘We cant have that.’

You sighed. ‘Have what, Mother?’

She looked as if her oxygen had jumped ship; her face was red, her cheeks puffed. ‘Gangsters on our doorstep,’ she stressed.

‘He’s not a gangster.’ You didn’t know if you were lying or not. If he was anything like Tommy Shelby, and you got the impression that he was above and beyond the Blinders, then he was definitely a gangster. But, she didn’t have to know that. 

‘Don’t you tell me what he is and isn’t. I know these things.' She sighed and you rolled your eyes at the volume of it. Her hands flapped, her voice bounced between octaves. 'God all that noise, everyone on the street will have seen.’

‘You’re over-reacting.’ You didn’t care if they’d heard, you’d tell them yourself what had happened if they asked. You just wanted silence. Quiet. No talk of men and gangsters. 

‘It’s not acceptable (y/n),’ your father chimed in. ‘We’re a quiet neighbourhood.’

You rubbed at your face, as if the stress could be dragged directly from your skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said. ‘I am. I didn’t mean to end up here.’

Your mother turned over the words in her head; you could tell from the way she chewed her lips, and looked between you and your father before speaking, that she was moments from some sort of insult. ‘Theres something… Harry you tell her.’

‘There’s something… different about you, darling,’ he finished.

‘Very fucking different.’

‘Mary.’ 

You blinked. She’d sworn before but never so directly. If you weren’t so exhausted, you’d laugh.

'You've not been yourself for days,' she said. 'Customers telling me you look bloody miserable.' 

‘Mother, I’m fine.’ You were lying for the sake of it now. Whichever words got you away from them quickest were the ones you wanted. The ones you needed. ‘It’s fine, alright. I just…’ you hesitated, trying to find an excuse. ‘I had an argument with Robert and went out for some air. I got lost and Alfie gave me a ride here because he didn’t think I should go home again.’

Without pausing, your mother asked, ‘Has he hurt you?’

‘Robert? No of course not.’

‘Oh dear.’ Her eyes had sunk to sympathy. She looked to your father, sighed, then sat beside you on the sofa. ’In every relationship-‘

‘Mum,’ you cut her off, shaking your head. 'I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t need to.’

‘You should have gone home,’ your father added. ‘Whatever happened, you should apologise and move on.’

‘It’s fine.’ 

‘I never go to bed without resolving the night before.’.

God, it was one brick after the other. Each one thrown through the window of your nicely established house, piling up on the other side. You were being built into your own fucking mess of mistakes. The day would end by force; you couldn’t bare to endure it any longer.

‘Well I do.’ You stood, turning to the both of them with the sourest smile you could muster. ‘Is the bed in my room still made up? It’s very late, you know.’

They had nothing to say, so your mother just nodded, and you left the room. Sleep was no relief, but it was all you had. 

————————————————

When you woke in the morning, after four hours of unfulfilling sleep, you left immediately. You didn’t pause to speak to your parents, you just dressed and began the long walk home. 

Robert had to be there. It was a new day, he had no option but to be at home. It was early enough that he wouldn’t have left for work, late enough that’d he’d be awake, sitting at the table with his oats and tea. 

Your heart sank. It wasn’t ideal. The conversation had to be had, and if it had to be over breakfast, then that’s how it would be. It really as as simple as that. Cruel but simple. Harsh but necessary.

The more you told yourself that, the more you believed it. 

It had to happen.

He had to know. 

With your mantra churning in the way it did, the walk had felt like nothing. When you reached the house you didn’t even pause; you climbed the steps and pushed the key into the lock, letting yourself in without attempting to be quiet. 

‘Robert?’ you called, staring down the hall. You waited a moment, before turning to shut the door behind you and shrugging out of your coat. 

You called for him again, walking between the rooms as you did. Each one was empty. Different from the night before, but empty. You didn’t linger long enough to notice what specifically had changed.

After that, it only took seconds for everything to fall apart. 

Robert was in the bedroom, stood waiting for you. He faced the doorway with his hands on his hips. He looked pale, dark bags latched to the skin beneath his eyes, hair flopped out off place and resting on his forehead. 

‘Robert,’ you breathed. You didn’t expect it, but you were relieved to see him. Yes, it meant that you had to go through with it, but at least he was safe. You stopped yourself from crossing the room, knowing better than to try and hug him now. You’d stay in the doorway. The distance would only make things easier when it began.

He’d said nothing. He just stared at you, his chest heaving - his breathing had betrayed him, he was already worked up over something. 

You looked about the room, pausing when you noticed the case on the bed, open and half-packed. 

‘I’m leaving,’ he said, answering before you’d even asked. ‘I’m leaving you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i'd love to hear what you thought! and thank you so much for everyone thats read so far, and still awaits every update. i know i'm not the most consistent of writers, so it means a lot!! 
> 
> (my tumblr is blinder-secrets and i post other fics and juicyness more frequently there)
> 
> xx


	13. Closed Door, Open Window

Three days after you’d been to Birmingham, after you’d sworn to banish all things Shelby from your life, you’d been asked to dinner by a man. That man was Robert. 

You’d had dinner with him before, a couple years earlier, but with your father and mother too. He’d been a customer since he could afford the suits, and they were fond of him. Fond enough to take him to dinner. You’d taken no notice of him at the time, he was just another man with money. In fact, you’d barely even said a word to him, you’d just eaten your meal and smiled. 

But then there he was, two years on, offering to take you out alone. 

He’d come in and walked directly over to you, announcing that he was there to collect his things and ask you out. Just like that. ‘I’m here for my order, and to ask you to dinner,’ he’d said. At the time, his boldness had caught you off-guard; now you wished that his boldness had been permanent, perhaps things would be different if he had kept that. 

‘Me?’ you’d asked, thankful that the counter sat between you. ‘You sure you’ve got the right shop?’ 

Robert had laughed, then smiled. You’d passed him his order, a soft-blue tie and matching pocket-square, before setting one hand on your hip.

‘There’s a nice girl in the flower shop next door,’ you said, ‘she seems like a fine dinner-date for you.’

He’d shaken his head, eyes alight with something tangible - something he’d since lost. ‘I wouldn’t make a mistake like that, darling.’ 

If it wasn’t for his smile, and the rosey blush to his cheeks, you probably would’ve said no. But he was so warm, so welcoming - you’d agreed before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Then you’d kept agreeing, and agreeing, until you were a pair. Until he was familiar, until you almost loved him. And you didn’t regret any of it. Not even now.

‘I’m leaving you,’ he said again. 

‘I heard you,’ you replied, still staring at the half-full suitcase. In the many times you’d run the conversation over in your head, you’d never imagined the practical side of things - that he’d have to pack everything he owned into a case, and then take that case away. You’d also never imagined that he’d be the one to go first. 

‘Why?’ you asked.

He laughed, though it wasn’t a laugh you’d heard before. You didn’t know he could sound so empty. ‘You know why,’ he answered.

You’d be lying if you said anything back, so instead, you kept quiet and looked to your hands. 

Robert sighed and pulled an armful of shirts from the wardrobe. He tossed them onto the bed, pulled one from the pile, folded it, then put it into the case. You watched him repeat the same action two more times before saying anything.

‘I’m sorry.’ It was weak, but you couldn’t think of anything else to comfort him. In the conversation you’d planned, you would have explained everything before even reaching this point. You’d have let him go gently, like he deserved, and the parting would’ve been mutual. 

His hands stilled on the shirt he held, his back staying rigid in front of you. ‘I said to myself, if you love her you have to trust her, so I did.' Though he was speaking aloud, it didn't seem like his words were for you. 'Then I came home and you weren’t here and I knew there was no fucking point.'

‘Robert,’ you tried. 

‘How long have you known?’ He was facing you now, his cheeks drained of colour. 

‘Known what?’

‘That you didn’t love me.’

You looked to your hands again, watching as you scratched the rough skin by your nail-bed. Part of you wanted to turn the question back on him, to ask him how long he’d known that you hadn’t loved him, but it’d make no difference. Everything was too far gone. The wounds had already sunk too deep. 

‘I want an answer,’ he pushed.

You couldn’t lie to him, but you had to approximate. It hadn’t been as clean-cut as he was expecting. ‘A couple weeks.’

He barely paused, his voice soured as he asked, ‘How long have you been fucking him?’

‘What?’ your voice jumped an octave, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. He turned back to the case, as if he couldn’t bare to look at you, as if he was ashamed of asking you.

‘After all this time, I never once touched you, I never-’ he stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘It’s not worth talking about. I’m leaving.’

‘Not yet.’ You made sure to speak slowly, carefully. You didn’t want to match his tone or rise above it. ‘We need to talk about this, we aren’t done-‘

‘Yes. We are.’

‘Let me explain,’ you pleaded. You were desperate to. You needed it off your chest, just as much as he needed to hear it from you. He needed to know that it wasn’t what he thought, that Tommy was only a part of it, that you’d grown tired before he’d even been in the picture. 

‘There’s nothing you could say that would be of any worth, (y/n).’ The final shirt was in; he pulled the lid over and fastened the case shut. ‘I’ll bring a car to collect everything this evening.’

Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat, your ears. You spoke and it felt as if you were shouting, just to hear yourself over the sound. ‘Was it the sex?’ you asked.

‘What?’ His reddened face twisted to yours. 

‘Was it because of the sex?’

You didn’t even know why you were asking. It didn’t matter what had made him realise you didn’t love him, it didn’t matter that he’d decided to leave. Nothing mattered. Yet, you couldn’t let it go, you couldn’t stop yourself from crumbling.

‘We’ve never even-‘ he stopped himself. His fingers kneaded the space between his brows.

‘You said you were fine with it.’

‘I was,’ he bit, ‘until you started sleeping with him.’

‘I’m not sleeping with him.’ They were the assumptions you'd been fearing. Of course it was the first place his mind would go; it was the first thing he’d assume you were missing. He thought you were leaving him just for that. 

He scoffed. 'I’m not an idiot.’

‘You’re acting like one.’

‘And you’re acting like a brat.’ 

You stared at him, scowling. Maybe you were a brat, and maybe you were being irrational. But, you always had been. You’d never been the soft, quirky, person he thought you were. You’d always been impulsive, selfish. The time you’d spent with him, you were only ever that, and he’d always chosen to ignore it. 

‘I think you moved in too soon,’ you said. You’d always thought it, you’d just never bothered to say it to him. 

‘Yes, and I didn’t move out soon enough.’ He attempted to leave. ‘Let me past, (y/n).’ 

You held your ground in the doorway. ‘Not until we resolve this.’

‘Why are you fighting it?’ he barked, hands gesturing toward you with such aggression that you stepped backwards onto the landing. ‘You want him, not me. You don’t love me! I am doing you a fucking favour here.’

When you found nothing to say back, he laughed - it was the same hollow sound from before. He stood there, staring at you, with some foreign amusement in his eyes. After a moment he said, ‘You wanted to be the one to walk away. That’s it.’

You hated that he was right. You hated yourself even more for the same thing. It soured in your gut, the need to have come out of this as the survivor, rather than the victim - it wasn't something to be proud of.

‘God,’ he shook his head, ‘how did I ever stomach you?’

‘You loved me,’ you said, though his question didn’t need an answer. You were looking past him, through him as if he were invisible, your focus lost between the buttons of his shirt. 

‘But you didn’t love me. Are we done?’

You blinked. Before you could say no, he’d pushed past you into the hall.

‘Robert,’ you called, turning to follow him down the stairs. ‘You have to listen to me.’

‘I don’t have to do anything.’ He was at the bottom and reaching for his coat. 

‘Rob.’

‘Don’t follow me, (y/n).’ The door opened and shut; he was gone. 

You stood, marooned on the stairway, clenching the bannister to keep from falling. Robert was gone and your house was just your house again: empty. Too big for you alone, too cold, too quiet. 

Without thinking, you’d pulled the shoe from your foot and tossed it at the door with a shout. It struck the wood, chipping the paint, and fell to the floor with a thud. 

It’d stayed there until Robert returned in the evening.

He’d collected his things, and neither of you had said anything. He just moved through the house in silence - you sat at the kitchen table, staring at the empty cup of tea in front of you. You hadn’t done anything all day, you’d moved from the stairs to the living room, and then later to the kitchen. Then he’d come back, and you hadn’t moved at all. 

Once his things were in the car, the house seemed to hold its breath. Like to breath again would be to exhale all the shadows he’d left behind. You almost thanked it aloud, for holding onto that, for letting you have some parts of him still. 

When he left for the second time that day, you didn’t throw a shoe at the door. You just got up from your chair and went to bed. 

 

————————————————

 

You didn’t know how long the pounding had been going on, but when you finally woke up, it was heavy and frantic: a fist knocking against your door with more force than needed. Still groggy from your sleep, you rubbed at your eyes, willing yourself to wake from whatever nightmare you were enduring. 

You blinked and then stared at the dark above you - the banging continued. 

When you got to the door, you didn’t even pause to consider who it could be. It was night, or early morning, and you weren’t expecting visitors. But after the events of the past two days, there could’ve been any number of angry people at your door. 

You grabbed the handle, turned it half-way, waited until the movement had stopped the knocking. Then, you opened the door. It was Tommy, you met him with the same lazy expression he always gave you. 

‘Tommy,’ you said. ‘I was sleeping.’

He was breathless, his coat parted more than usual, his knuckles red to the point of bruising. Eyes wide, he stared at you; he took in your clothes, which were the same ones you were wearing last time you saw him, then your face, your eyes. He must've seen all the remnants of your day printed into your skin. ‘What happened?’ he asked, tone scolding.

You blinked a couple times, then stepped aside to let him in. He didn’t say anything, but he shut the door behind him and followed you down the hall to the kitchen. 

‘Tea?’ you asked, walking to the kettle on autopilot. If he wasn’t there speaking to you, you’d have assumed you were sleep-walking, your body was heavy as if it was. 

‘It’s two in the morning,’ he replied.

‘Whiskey then.’

You expected him to correct you again, but he didn’t, so you poured two whiskeys and set them both on the table. He didn’t move to grab one, he just looked at you cautiously. 

‘What happened, (y/n)? What’s wrong, ay?’

Where to start. You sighed, then shrugged. ’Robert left me.’

His eyebrows lifted slightly, he hadn’t seen that coming, or maybe he hadn’t expected you to say it so blankly. You almost took comfort in the thought that he was as surprised by Robert’s awareness as you were. It didn’t cross your mind that maybe Tommy didn’t care enough to think too much on it. 

‘Why’re you here, Tommy?’ 

‘I came by earlier, to see if you were alright, but no-one answered.’

‘I was in bed.’

‘At 8pm?’

You nodded.

He pushed his hands into his pockets. Though he was only stood on the other side of the table, the the pair of you felt miles apart. With your energy so low, and his so careful, there was almost nothing palpable between you. For a moment, you feared you had made a mistake. 

'I thought something had happened to you,’ he said. ‘I rang Alfie, he said you’d been home when he passed last night.’ 

You smiled. His brow flexed as if he were going to frown, before straightening again. He’d thought better of asking why you smiled and you were glad of it - you would have just told him that you were smiling because Alfie was lying. And that you knew that, because you were with Alfie last night, because you weren’t home at all. 

‘I came back for peace of mind.’

‘And to wake me up.’ Yawning, you pulled the chair out and sat down. He mirrored you, sitting with one hand resting on the table, watching you until you spoke again. ‘Did you find it? Peace of mind?’

He half-shook his head, inclining it slightly to the left. ‘Can’t tell.’

The whiskey still sat in front of you, untouched and burning your nostrils. ’I didn’t think he’d leave me,’ you said, ‘didn’t think he knew.’

Tommy shrugged. ’Had to be done, doesn’t matter how it went.’ 

You shook your head. ‘It does. It doesn’t, I just. I don’t know, Tommy.’

‘You’ll be right, love. It’s what you wanted.’

He wasn’t getting it; he wasn’t getting it because even you didn’t get it. The end result was what you’d wanted. You’d wanted to be free of Robert, so that you could pursue Tommy. So that you could have your life, and him, and not feel guilty or conflicted. 

Yet, there you were. You’d lost an entire day to nothing. You hadn’t eaten, washed, changed your clothes. You’d just stopped functioning entirely. The shock of the morning had stripped you of objectivity, and now you couldn’t see that the result was the same. All you could see was the half-filled house, which was now occupied by another man. 

Not even a day had passed and you’d already let him into your home, poured him a drink from Robert’s bottle of whiskey. A gangster who’d arranged for a man to identify your body. A man who didn't even know your birthday.

‘Look,’ you burst, ignoring the sentence he’d begun to speak - you were spiralling again, desperate to stop. ‘I need space, okay? I need to be on my own.’

His jaw tightened; you continued anyway.

‘Give me a number to ring, whichever one will get to you first. I’ll call when I’m better.’ 

He considered it - then reached across the table to scribble an area code and address onto the corner of a newspaper. ‘Don’t keep me waiting too long, alright?’

You nodded. 

He stood, cleared his throat, and walked away. For a minute you’d accepted that he was leaving. But then the house felt empty and your chest felt so tight you couldn't breathe, and Robert had left you twice in one day, and now Tommy was going too. 

‘Tommy,’ you croaked, standing and following him into the hall. ‘Tommy, wait.’ 

He looked at you lazily - he either knew what you’d say, and expected you to say it, or he was tired of you like Robert was. 

‘I…’ you lost all words. You didn’t know what you wanted. You needed time to get over Robert, but then that had been happening for days. You’d been grieving the loss of your relationship since Tommy first showed up. You didn't even know if you needed time, or if it was just something you felt obliged to take. 

‘Will you stay?’ you eventually asked. 

You couldn’t look at him. You were embarrassed by your own change of mind. Sooner or later, you’d have to change. You’d have to stop yourself from skipping between options like they were free, like they cost nothing to those around you. You had to pick once and then deal with the consequences. If you didn’t, you might lose Tommy, just as quickly as you had the first time. 

‘I’ll stay,’ he replied. He waited a moment, still drinking you in, then he took off his coat and hat and put them on the rack by the door. 

They looked strangely correct, like they’d been put there before; but, maybe it was just that you’d imagined them there enough times, that it seemed familiar, whole.

‘I’m exhausted,’ you said, the statement dropping from your lips without real purpose. 

You were so tired from the day, from the arguments. The number of people you’d disappointed in those two days alone, was enough to leave you weighted to the ground, lacking energy and care. Too heavy with regret to think clearly. All you could think to do, was sleep, sleep and forget the ache behind your eyes. 

Tommy sighed. You couldn’t tell what sort of sigh it was. He walked toward you with his hand out, his voice low, ‘Let’s get to bed, ay?’

When you nodded, he took your hand and led you on. 

You followed him up the stairs in a daze - months ago, at the races, you’d have never believed that you’d be in this situation. Hand in hand with Tommy Shelby, going to bed with the untouchable man. Now, you couldn’t even enjoy it like you should of done.

But, after everything, you were glad to have him there. To have his hand tethering you when you wanted to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GASP another update?? so soon?? who am I? that's right, i'm an absolute sucker for angst! hope you enjoyed 
> 
> xx


	14. Limbo

You were snatched from your dream by the front door slamming, and short-tempered heels making fast work on the floorboard of your stairs. From the huffing, and the way your name clattered though the walls, it could only ever be one person. Your mother - and she was using the key that was reserved for emergencies to ruin your morning.

‘Are you in there?’ she barked from the door, having reached the landing before you’d rubbed the sleep from your eyes. ‘I know what you’ve been up to, young lady.’

God. It hit like a bullet, dead-centre between your rib-cage. It seemed every morning you woke up, you’d be forced to remember what had happened and feel it all over again, to re-open the wound that had barely begun to heal.

Robert had left, you were alone. And now there was an added affliction; Tommy.

You looked to your left and found the bed beside you was empty. No sign of him but the folded corner of the bed-cover. He’d stayed with you last night, seen you at your worst, and said nothing about it. Then he’d left, and said nothing about that. The more you thought of his visit, the less you could remember. Had he said anything at all? Had he even helped?

‘I’m here,’ you replied, stifling a yawn. 

‘Get up.’ The door opened as she snapped. ‘Get up.’

In the doorway, she’d planted her feet and stared, face carved from the stones of Hell itself. You frowned back at her, sitting upright as she marched toward the bed. 

‘Mother, what are you-‘

‘Get out of that bed.’ She swatted at you, catching the top of your head with her purse. ‘Now. Up.’ 

Her hand was around your arm, pulling you up before you could argue otherwise, and dragging you toward the door.

‘Mum!’ You broke away from her, stumbling barefooted into the wardrobes behind. ‘What is wrong with you?’ 

‘Me? What is wrong with you?’ she spat back, jabbing toward you with her handbag. ‘You’re out of control.’

Your mouth fell slack. ‘What? What have I done?’ 

You’d thought she was talking about the break-up, knowing Robert, he’d have told them himself, but she couldn’t possibly have been so angry about that - even with some embellishment from his telling of the story. 

‘I saw him.’ She was flustered, her anger slipping in place of embarrassment. 

‘Who?’

‘I saw him outside, leaving.’ She sneered the last word, as if it were code for something shameful. As if it gave any insight into her babbling. 

‘Mother, I have no idea what you’re-‘

‘Mr Shelby.’ There. She was settled again, and sure in her anger. ‘Mr Shelby, of all people.’

You looked to the floor, folding your arms across your night-shirt. She’d seen him as he left. It was stupid, but you felt a twinge of jealousy from it. No shame, no embarrassment, just bitterness that he had escaped you and not her. The least he could’ve done was avoid your fucking mother. 

‘He’s a friend,’ you said, as if she would believe it. 

‘He’s a customer.’ 

‘It isn’t how it looks. I wasn’t… I didn’t feel well and Tommy offered to-‘

‘To what? Make you better?’ She set her hands on her hips, and gave you a look sharp enough to shrink you back into childhood. ‘You knock me sick. You couldn’t even wait! Not two days have passed, and you’re already inviting other men into your bed.’

‘That’s not what-‘

‘Robert is a good man, [y/n], a good man. For you. For us.’

‘He told you.’

‘Yes.’ She said it like it aided her argument, like it was a winning move you hadn’t seen coming. ‘He rang your father to let him know what had happened. He also asked that I come round and check you were well.’

You groaned, pushing your face into your hands. Of course he did. Robert was kind despite the situation, despite everything you had done. He couldn’t help himself. 

‘I suppose I’ll tell him you’re feeling fine?’ She hummed, but hardly waited for an answer. ‘You’re certainly well enough to become another man’s whore in a matter of hours.’

Your head snapped up, your own gaze matching hers. ‘That isn’t fair, Mother.’

‘You know what isn’t fair?’

‘No, do you-‘

‘He was planning to marry you.’

‘Will you let me speak!?’ you burst, your voice silencing hers. ‘God, all you ever do is fucking interrupt me!’

You expected her to tell you to watch your language, but instead she stood still, her arms falling slack to her sides. The freedom of it almost steered you into speechlessness yourself. But you had to explain, you couldn’t have your mother thinking you were something you weren’t.

‘Tommy, Mr Shelby,’ you began, pausing to still yourself with a weighted breath. ‘It really isn’t how it looks. I don’t know what he said to you, but, it’s not the case. We’re close.’

‘You threw away everything you had, for him?’

‘Robert and I were never going to work.’

‘And it took you a gangster to realise that?’ 

‘He’s not…’

She shook her head, tutting. The sound itched your skin. Her disapproval never meant much, but now it felt like the final blow to your already sinking ship. The worst of it was that she was right. You were in the wrong. She knew it, Robert knew it. Tommy probably knew it.

‘I never meant for it to get so confused, Mother,’ you admitted, lowering your voice. ‘Things with Robert weren’t working, and Tommy was…’ 

You'd trailed off. You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself, let alone explaining it aloud to another. What you and Tommy had was still impossible to define.

‘Look at you.’ She stood there, watching you feel sorry for yourself, with an expression far from sympathy. ‘You’ve let a good man walk out of your life, in favour of a bad one.’

‘He’s not all bad,’ you tried, though you knew it was a losing battle. ‘He’s good to me.’ 

She might as well have laughed. Instead, she gestured to the room with a bored expression. ‘Then where is he?’ 

You couldn’t answer her; you didn't know where he was. He hadn’t even left a note.

 

————————————————————————

 

You don’t know how your mother had talked you into it - or if it was really her idea at all, but you later found yourself standing outside of Robert’s work. You’d been there for ten minutes at least, attempting to build the courage to take yourself inside. 

You were washed, dressed, presentable. His whiskey was tucked into your bag, neck poking through the handles without shame. It was the only peace-offering you had to hand, so it would have to do. The worst he could do was send you away.

When you reached his receptionist’s desk, you were already sweating. By some word of mouth, or secretarial intuition, you could tell she knew about you and him. It was painted all over her face - from her khol’d eyes to her perfectly lined lips. She greeted you with a sad smile, her gaze dropping to the bottle before she’d even said hello. 

‘He’s in a meeting,’ she said softly. ‘Shall I take a message?’

‘No, I can wait.’

It wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, but she nodded anyway and gestured toward the seats on your right. 

Only a few moments passed before you saw him. He faltered in the doorway, stilling as soon as his eyes fell on yours, and the gaggle of men following him came to an awkward stop behind; the few that recognised you muttered jokes and curses at the unexpected stand-off, their taunts causing red to fill Robert’s cheeks.

Standing, you gripped your bag straps until your hand ached. This was your last chance. If it went wrong, you’d have lost him forever. Last night you would have accepted that, but now you weren’t sure goodbye was the right thing for either of you. You attempted to smile at him. ‘Can we talk?’

He stepped forward, away from his crowd, to reply in a hushed voice, ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘I… I want, need, to talk to you.’

‘There’s nothing to say.’ 

One of the men cleared his throat. ‘Bobby?’ 

Robert raised a finger to them, before facing you with a tortured expression. You hadn’t meant to catch him like this; you’d wanted him alone, in his office. You just wanted five minutes with him to clear the air. If there was any chance of him forgiving you, of things sorting themselves, you had to start-

‘You have to leave.’ His voice was still hushed, but beginning to strain. ‘Why would you come here?’

Frowning, you shook your head. ‘No. Robert, you deserve an explanation.’

‘I don’t want an explanation from you.’

‘But,’ he wasn’t listening, he wasn’t getting it, ‘but you don’t know what happened.’

‘I can guess.’

‘You can’t.’

He looked at you expectantly. There was nothing he wanted to say? Nothing at all?

‘Mother said you called,’ you said quietly, ‘I thought…’

‘I thought you were going to kill yourself for Christ’s sake,’ he snapped. ‘I couldn’t have that on me.’

You felt yourself begin to stutter, words failing before even reaching your tongue. When you lifted your eyes to look over his shoulder, the men that waited for him stared back at you, amusement slick across their faces. They were moments away from laughing at you, and in your embarrassment, you could imagine Robert laughing with them. 

‘Is that whiskey?’ 

His question brought you back to him, but this time you set your face with repulsion, and attempted to freeze your voice into cold indifference. ‘Yes.’

‘You aren’t drinking, are you?’ His eyes softened into pity. ‘Darling, it’s barely noon.’

Yanking it from your bag, you pushed the bottle into his chest, letting him fumble to catch it. ‘You left it behind.’

The men laughed, but Robert just stared. ‘It’s just whiskey.’

‘I don’t want anything of yours in my house.’ You managed to say it without breaking, but each word had caught on the growing lump in your throat. 'That's the last of it.'

Slowly, his lips edged upwards. He was holding a smile back; you watched it buffer behind his eyes, heard it fight to show in his voice. ‘You couldn’t just… pour it away?’

‘No.’ It was all you could manage. Your words had eaten themselves in your embarrassment. With nothing else to say, and no lasting hope for what you and Robert had, you left. You turned and left, without so much as a goodbye. 

It wasn’t the reunion you’d convinced yourself you deserved, nor was it the closure you needed - but it was an end. It was done and you had to endure it. 

 

————————————————————————

 

Somehow, despite the weight in your chest, you’d made it into work. You’d dragged yourself to the tailors, blamed the red of your eyes on the wind, and set to sweeping the shop as if nothing was wrong. You almost felt joyous at your success - if it could be called that. You were working, which meant you were coping. 

For a time, the motion of it had helped; focusing on the broom had stilled the chaos in your head, stopped your hands for picking themselves apart. Your father had even given up on hovering beside you, finally convinced that you were stable enough to handle the basic cleaning jobs. 

When your mother arrived, things took a nose dive. She’d set her bag down and turned to you with scrutiny. 

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And?’

‘Mary,’ your father said, ‘let’s just leave the girl be, hey?’

‘She’s made a mess of things, Harry.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s one of our best clients.’ 

‘I know.’

‘Is that all that matters to you?’ you’d asked, voice thick with disbelief. ‘Your client?’

‘He does bring us a lot of business, dear,’ your father had tried. He was softer than your mother, but you could tell the situation displeased him just as much. 

‘You’ve forced me on every eligible man that’s come through the door. What did you think would happen?’

‘We didn’t think you’d leave one for that-‘ she’d fought for the word, searched for the right insult - but before she’d found it, the door had chimed and the three of you were no longer alone. You’d never been so glad to see a customer in your life.

The rest of your shift had been unbearable. So tense, for you and them, that when you suggested finishing early to go home and rest, no-one stopped you. Your father nodded, your mother just sighed and continued her job. You wouldn’t complain; it was a better outcome than another failed conversation would’ve been. 

It was still light when you got home, but the house was dark. Cold. You switched on every lamp downstairs before even taking your coat off. Settling in the house now that it was empty was more difficult that you could’ve prepared for. It wasn’t until the rooms were lit, with the radios on and the curtains drawn, that you felt somewhat comfortable. 

You made tea and toast, and sat at the kitchen table to force yourself to finish both. It'd been a long time since the house was yours, just yours. For a moment, you almost convinced yourself that you could like it. That the freedom was liberating. 

‘What is wrong with you?’ you said aloud, as if speaking it would provide some answers. 

When it didn’t, you dropped and rested your forehead against the table. It’d been, what, three days? Three days since he’d beaten you to it, and left you before you could leave him, and this is how you were acting. 

You should’ve been relaxing, revelling. You should have done exactly what your mother thought you did. Fuck. You should have slept with Thomas Shelby. 

Tommy. 

You lifted your head, squinting at the clock in the hall. It was almost eight. It’d been a full day, and still you’d heard nothing from him. No explanation, no phone call to see how you were. Just radio fucking silence.

That day at the park, he’d said he wanted all of you, or nothing. That he wouldn’t share. And now you were there, waiting for him, and he was missing. Robert knew the truth, and Tommy had run away again. 

The old newspaper was still sat in front of you, his number still scribbled on its wilting corner. You didn’t pause to think what you would say to him, you’d done it enough times to know it was useless. That as soon as you were faced with the depth of his voice, you’d forget every word you’d left printed into your tongue. Instead, you took to the hallway, and called him before you could change your mind. 

The tone rang twice before someone answered; when it was a woman’s voice on the other end, you almost slammed the thing down again. 

‘Hello?’

‘I’m looking for Tommy?’ You thought about asking for Mr Shelby, but it was Tommy or nothing now. If he didn’t want you to call him that, he shouldn’t have said what he did. He shouldn’t have taken those boundaries down with his words and his kisses. 

‘He’s out. Who’s calling?’

The voice finally registered in your memory. It was Polly, it had to be. When you’d asked for the number that would get to him quickest, he given you hers. Theirs. The number of the place in Small Heath. 

It was bittersweet. The man that had been so distant, so business like and cold, had given you his home address. But he was still missing, he’d still abandoned you when you needed him. 

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, sorry.’ You cleared your throat. ‘It’s [y/n]. Could you tell him I called?’

‘Ah.’ Her sigh cooed through the receiver. ‘I can pass him a message?’

There was nothing you could say to him, not through the phone. Not through Polly. ‘No, it’s okay. He can call me back. Thanks, Pol.’ 

‘If you’re sure, dear.’ 

You agreed and she said goodbye, the phone going dead before you could pull it from your ear. That was that then. Your last string of hope, tangled into a new knot from clashing schedules. You rang; he didn't answer. At least you could say you tried. With nothing left to do, you returned to the kitchen to finish your supper, not caring that the tea had gone cold. 

After all that you'd been through, you were still just a fool waiting for a man that didn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i finally managed to squeeze some words out, im out of practice so im sorry if this wasnt up to scratch. but yay for writing ay!

**Author's Note:**

> Im currently writing the next chapter, but it'd be cool to get some feedback on this!!! 
> 
> tumblr: blinder-secrets


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